po. 31 /

WILKIE COU,INS AS WRITER FOR CHARLES DICKENS’ "HOUSEHOLD WORDS" (1850-1859),

AND "ALL THE YEAR ROUND" (1859-1870): A SELECTION OF HIS SHORT STORIES,

ESSAYS, AND SKETCHES WITH HEADNOTES AND CRITICAL INTRODUCTION

Richard D. Seiter

A Dissertation

Submitted to the Graduate School of Bowling Green State University in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of

DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY

March 1970

Approved by Doctoral Committee

Department of English

Graduate School Representative e

BOWLING GREEN STATE LSSRAKt J7Z 77/ 436126 d7^

/ft# ABSTRACT

The "grandfather of the English detective novel" is the title which most literary critics assign to Wilkie Collins, the author of The Woman in White (1859) and The Moonstone (I860), His close association after 1850 with that literary giant Charles Dickens makes for an easy comparison and tends to dwarf Collins* reputation. When these two men are evaluated together, they are usually considered to be members of the sensational school of novel writing, which followed ' Dickens’ famous formula—"Make ’em laugh, make 'em weep, and make 'em 1 wait.” Dickens' literary reputation goes far beyond this, but critics V' have had a tendency to dismiss further consideration of Collins' abilities. Mystery and suspense are universally recognized and praised as those qualities which drew the Victorian reader to his novels. But his xvriting has a neglected lighter side which developed early in his career when he was contributing short articles to popular weekly journals—especially to Dickens' Household Words (1850-1859) and All the Year Round (1859-1870). Seeing Collins as a periodical essayist presents an approach that adds another perspective to his literary career. To provide context it is necessary to consider Dickens as editor and his editorial policies that affected Collins.

The collection demonstrates Collins' versatility in form, tone, and subject matter in these short articles, reminiscent in some ways of the eighteenth century periodical essay tradition. Many of his short stories, travelogues, personal and informal essays, and character sketches contain a subtle yet no less delightful humor which can be detected in his later famous mystery novels. Much of the humor originates from narrators and modified caricatures who belonged to the cosmopolitan middle class—the s-gme group that made up the largest segment of Household Words' reading public. Many of these narrators reveal their own trivial idiosyncracies while courteously exposing the ridiculous in other individuals who have managed to annoy them. Collins often uses these narrators to reflect the more whimsical . preoccupations currently circulating in the respectable middle class of mid-Victorian Lord on. In other essays he attempts to disseminate information or develop critical attitudes (especially in the arts) that would at once entertain readers and expand their knowledge. Ultimately these essays illumine the more quaint and obscure recesses of mid-Victorian "respectable" society with the pleasant discovery that part of human nature remains a timeless blithe spirit. PREFACE

At present the literary and critical reputation of Wilkie

Collins has been derived from his novels, particularly The Woman

in White (I860), and The Moonstone (1869). Unfortunately the same worn cliches which were used by his contemporary critics are still being paraphrased in most present day commentary. Such statements

as "a skillful contrivor (sicJ of plots" or a "master craftsman of

suspense" are automatically assigned, classifying Collins as a

second-rate novelist of the sensational school. One gets the

impression scholars have fallen into the habit of giving Collins

these tributes of faint praise because their cavalcade of English novelists is already long and crowded enough.

Fortunately, my intei*est in Collins did not have its origins

in this criticism; instead his name was first associated with

Charles Dickens in a graduate seminar where reference was made to

Dickens’ attempt to surpass The Moonstone by writing The Mystery of

Edwin Drood. After reading both novels, I became curious to know more about the relationship between these two men, particularly the circumstances under which these novels were published. This led to the discovery that many of their novels (including The Woman in White and The Moonstone by Collins—A Tale of Two Cities, Great Expectations,

Hard Times, and Our Mutual Friend for Dickens) were published in

Dickens* two popular journals, Household Words (1850-1859) and All the Year Round (1859-1870). These journals were available at iv

Bowling Green University Library, arid my interests turned toward an examination of their subject matter and editorial methods. At the same time, I began to read The Woman in White and became convinced that there was more literary merit in this novel than simple sensationalism because of the artistic craftsmanship displayed in weaving domestic realism and humor in counterpoint to relieve the mystery and suspense.

Collins had spent several years prior to the publication of this novel as a staff member of Household Words writing short articles,

j essays, and stories. After compiling an accurate checklist of these shorter works, reading the articles with great enjoyment, and examining what little criticism had been written about them, several ideas occurred to me which eventually became the goals for this project.

The most immediate purpose is to collect a representative sampling of Collins’ shorter contributions to Household Words and All the Year Round in order to show that his craftsmanship goes beyond the sensational and macabre. These articles also demonstrate his appeal as a popular periodical writer in the mid-Victorian period, reflecting in an amusing way the more trivial concerns and vanities of the largest segment of the reading public—the respectable middle- class citizen of London. The variety and range of subject matter and tone in these articles reveal how Collins stretches his readers' minds and imaginations as he teases their prudish sense of humor.

In accomplishing the foregoing objectives, two related areas inadvertently developed in the early pages of the introduction—the V roles of Dickens’ two journals as popular literature and the relation­ ship between Collins as staff writer and Dickens as editor. The study of the two journals is necessary in order to place Collins' writing in accurate historical perspective; my investigation includes a brief analysis of the subject matter found in the journals to make it possible to classify Collins' subject matter in correlation to the other articles. The relationship between Collins as staff writer and Dickens as editor will reveal, in addition to a warm personal friendship, a sensitive awareness of the vast reading public to whom they addressed themselves. Even though the early sections of the introduction are preoccupied with Dickens and his journals, it should be kept in mind that this material functions as needed background for understanding Collins' vibrant spirit when xvriting periodical literature. vi

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Page

PART I: INTRODUCTION...... 1

Household Words: Historical Background. • 1

The Credo of Household Words i "A Preliminaiy Word"...... 5

The Kaleidoscopic World of Household Words 7

"Conducted" by Charles Dickens ...... ••••••••• 11

Maintenance of the Heart and Hearth. .••••••••... 21

Telemachus and the Mentor. ••••••..»..»••••• 24

The Darker Forms: The Short Fiction and the Historical Sketch: Melodramatic Themes, Suspense, Sentimentality, and Fatality ...... 29

The Lighter Forms: The Personal Informal Essay and the Character Sketch: Urbane Humor, the Middle-Class Point- of-View, and Faroe ° ■ 44

PART II: THE COLLECTION ...... 71

Short Fiction (Headnote Commentary). ..•»•..••••• 71

"A Terribly Strange Bed" ...... 73

The Personal Essay (Headnote Commentary) ...... 100

"Bold Words by a Bachelor" ...*...... 102

The Informal Essay—The Arts (Headnote Commentary) ..... 112

"To Think, or Be Thought For?" . . ,...... 114

"Dramatic Grub Street - Explored in Two Letters1' ... 132

"A Breach of British Privilege". 151

The Informal Essay—Politics and Protocol (Headnote Commentary)...... 161 Vll

"Strike!".....< ...... •••»< 163

"A Clause for the New Reform Bill" [with Charles DickensJ...... 176

"Give Us Room!"...... 185

Sketches of Character—Widow and Spinster (Headnote Commentary) ...... 196

"Mrs. Badgery"...... 198

"Pray Employ Major Namby!’’. ..«••• ...... 213

PART Ills AFTERWORD...... 229

FOOTNOTES ...... ? ...... 233

PRIMARY BIBLIOGRAPHY...... 2/4-8

A SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY...... 252 I

PART I: INTRODUCTION

Household Words: Historical Background

The first writing that Collins attempted came from the promise

he made to his father to write his biography. Wilkie had always

admired and been interested in his father’s profession, that of

being a landscape artist, since William Collins managed to develop

in his two sons an appreciation for art in many forms. No doubt

wonderful childhood memories such as the year the Collins family

spent touring and studying in Italy were instrumental in shaping his

respect not only for the art of classic antiquity hut also the

effort involved in producing any art, including that made by his

father. During the six years that passed between the writing of this biography and the acceptance of Dickens’ offer to write for Household

Words, Collins studied law and was admitted to the bar, although he

never practiced because he became preoccupied with Dickens' journal

and eventually dedicated all his efforts to writing for Household

Words. Before beginning to look at Collins' writing apprenticeship

on this journal, it is necessary to examine briefly the periodical

tradition in which Dickens' journal grew.

During his busiest years as a novelist Charles Dickens was also the editor, and for twenty years the controlling proprietor, of a series of periodicals,1 the greatest of which attained a circulation larger 2 than that of the London Times of the period. The first number of

Household Words was dated Saturday, March 30, 1850. It contained 2

twenty-four double-column pages of reading matter, roughly something

over twenty thousand words. Every number after this contained the

same number of pages, double-column and un-illustrated, with some

six or seven items—generally an installment of a serial story, one

or two items of topical issue, some descriptions of travel abroad or

at home, a literary or historical article, perhaps a fanciful essay,

and a poem. The last number of Household Words was published on

Saturday, May 28, 1859, thus overlapping with the first number of

All the Year Round which appeared on Saturday, April 30, 1859» Their

enlightened, humanitarian impact jolted heavily against the lethargic,

mundane and trashy journalism found in competitive periodicals.

To judge from a body of collected opinion, the majority of

cheap literary periodicals prior to 1850 were commonplace in the

extreme and Dickens proved to be a most effective reformer of such

a condition. Through Household Words and All the Year Round, Dickens

proved that a periodical could be published in popular form, written

in a popular language, and sold at a popular price (two pence), and

still have literary merit. He proved that a periodical could be

amusing and wholesome at the same time.

Periodical literature in England began its campaign for self-

improvement in the early fifties of the last century, and Dickens

has been recognized as the most commanding figure in the revival.

Dr. Walter Graham, possibly America’s foremost historian of the literary journal, has said, "Household Words was the first important example of a popularizing tendency which had been apparent since 1815, 3 when several low-priced and low-quality periodicals began to appear on the market.

In 1831 and 1832, partially as a result of the political agitation attending the passage of the Reform Bill, there grew up a tremendous demand for cheap, popular, "morally pure" literature.

Chamber's Journal and The Penny Magazine, both established in 1832, were pioneers in the effort to supply the demand. A third periodical of this class, the Saturday Magazine, was established by Charles

Knight in the same year. This one year, 1832, also witnessed the beginning of a number of other cheap, popular periodicals that sold for a penny or a penny and a half. Among them were the following:

The Half-Penny Magazine, The Christian's Penny Magazine, The Ladies'

Penny Gazette, The Girl's and Boy's Penny Magaz ine, The True Half- Penny Magazine, Dibden's Penny Trumpet, and The Penny Comic Magazine.**

Of these Dr. Graham says, "Only the Penny Magazine deserves notice as a periodical of literary merit.

The literary tone of these magazines as a whole was not high at any time, with the possible exception of The Penny Magazine. In the eighteen-forties there appeared several periodicals decidedly low in tone and sometimes morally offensive (according to Victorian literary merit), such as The Family Herald (184-3), The London Journal

(1845), and Lloyds Weekly Miscellany (1850). In contrast to this group, Dr. Graham comments, "It remained for Dickens and his. colleagues to improve once more the quality of the weekly magazines, and to bring to the household and fireside reading matter both excellent in quality and low in price „6

At a banquet given on April 10, 1868, in honor of Dickens by

America's most exclusive press club, George William Curtis, then of

Harper's Weekly, responded thus to the call of the toastmaster, Horace

Greeley, for an expression from the weekly press:

It is impossible to determine the limits or the merits of individual agency, but there is no doubt that among the most vigorous forces in the elevation of the character of the Weekly Press has been Household Words and All the Year Round; since the beginning of publication of Household Words, the periodical literature of England has been born again.'

It was by no means an accident that the Dickens edited periodicals threw their great weight into the balance on the side of reform in popular literature. From the days of Pickwick, Dickens placed certain high standards of morality upon his work. (Dickens often accurately anticipated the moral temper of the Victorian reader.)

Underlying all of Dickens' literary efforts, first and last, whether dashing off a short sketch, laboring over a great novel, or editing a popular journal were the fourfold principles enumerated in the 1837

"Preface to the First Edition" of Pickwick¡namely, (1) to write about the people, (2) to amuse the people, (3) to produce clean and wholesome reading material, and (4) to correct abuses and promote human happiness. He wrote:

The Author's object in this work was to place before the reader a constant succession of characters and incidents Qfirst principlej ; to print them in as vivid colours as he could command; and to render them, at the same time, life-like and amusing (second principlej. ... He trusts that, throughout the book, no incident or expression occurs which could not call a blush into the most delicate cheek or wound the feelings of the most sensitive person fthird principle"! . If any of 5

his imperfect descriptions, while they afford amusement in the perusal, should induce only one reader to think better of his fellowman, and to work upon the brighter and more kindly side of human nature, he would be proud and happy to have led to such a result [fourth principle].®

Possibly Dickens* most pointed statement of his purpose to aid

in the reformation of the English press was made in his "Introductory

Address to the Readers of the Daily News" (in spite of the fact that

he edited only seventeen numbers of this paper). He said:

The Principles advocated by the Daily News will be the Principles of Progress and Improvement; of Education, Civil and Religious Liberty and Equal Legislation; Principles such as its Conductors believe the advancing spirit of the times requires, the Condition of the country demands and Justice, Reason, and Experience legitimately sanction. ... We seek, as far as in us lies, to elevate the character of the press of England,

Within this statement Dickens defined the ethical and social

responsibilities of the English press; in his next statement he would

begin to consider ways in which he could make his writing more

palatable for the mass reading taste.

The Credo of Household Words : "A Preliminary Word"

Dickens knew exactly the kind of situation he wanted as a

"conductor" of a periodical by the time he was presented with the

opportunity to publish one-—independently. The monthly Bentley's

Miscellany, which he edited from 1837 to 1839, had not been wholly

his own conception and control, and he soon discovered that editing

a daily newspaper was not to his taste. Back in 1839, he had planned

a threepenny weekly on the same lines as that of the Tatler, Spectator, 6

and Goldsmith’s Bee (but "far more popular in the subjects of which it 10 treats and its mode of treating them"). This project led to Master

Humphrey's Clock, which became, against Dickens' will, merely a vehicle

for his own serialized novels.

He also knew exactly the kind of magazine he wanted to create.

It was to be entertaining, and, at the same time, the instrument of serious social purpose. It should portray the "social wonders, good and evil," in "the stirring world around us."^^ In a letter to Mrs.

Gaskell, author of Mary Barton, asking her to be a contributor to

Household Words, Dickens outlined his aim of a new, cheap weekly journal of general literature with the "purpose of raising up those 12 that are down and the general improvement of our social conditions."

Giving no encouragement to those who glorified the "good old times," emphasizing the present as "this summer-dawn of time," it should range over past and present and over every nation, with a sharp eye for what was wrong and a warm heart for what was right. It should fight for tolerance and the progress of human welfare and give no ground to chicanery and oppression.^

Many of these aims were identical with those of radical reform, but in one way Household Words was to be very different. Motivated by

"no mere utilitarian spirit, no iron binding of the mind to the realities" it should "cherish that light of Fancy which is inherent in the human breast" and insist that no class was to be "excluded from the sympathies and graces of imagination."^** Woe betide that day, continued Dickens in "A Preliminary Word" in the first number, when 7 the workers were taught that their lot was to be only a moody, brutal slavery at the "whirling wheel of toil." Not harsh efficiency, not the clanking of an economic machine, were the goals of society, but the loving union of multitudes of human lives in generous feeling and noble purpose. Even the name Household Words^ was so "chosen" to express the following:

The desire we have at heart in originating it. • • .We aspire to be in the Household affections and to be numbered among the Household thoughts of our readers. Vie hope to be the comrade and friend of many thousands of people, of both sexes and of all ages and conditions . • . to be associated with the harmless laughter and gentle tears of many hearths. &

This same universal appeal was to be increased when the public discovered the variety of reading material in Dickens’ journal.

The Kaleidoscopic World of Household Words

The range of subject matter in the pages of Household Words was fascinating and extraordinary. General information articles alone exhibited an appeal to the widest variety of public taste. A random selection follows: San Francisco during the Gold Rush, emigration to Australia, the operation of a Paris newspaper, the work of John Hullah (Dickens' old friend) in providing free classes in choral singing for the poor, the hunting of seals and whales, the use of ice for preserving food and making cool drinks, the possibility of crossing the English channel by a tunnel or by an enormous bridge arching between a series of artificial islands.

Many of the informational articles had their origins in 8

scientific essays based on the research of famous scientists such as

Faraday. Within the first year of Household Words Dickens wrote to

Faraday suggesting that articles based on his "lectures on breakfast

table" and those "addressed last year, to children" would be

exceedingly beneficial to the public. "May I ask you whether it would

be agreeable to you, and, if so, whether you would favour me with the

loan of your notes of those lectures for perusal.Faraday replied

graciously, putting the notes at Dickens' disposal. Dickens responded:

I cannot really tell you . . . how very sensible I am of your great kindness or what an honour I feel it to be to have interested you in my books, I think I may be able to do something with the candle, but I would not touch it, or have it touched, unless it can be relighted with something of the beautiful simplicity and clearness of which I see traces in your notes. °

On August 2, 1850, Household Words carried an article called

"The Chemistry of a Candle," in which a young boy who had attended

one of ;the lectures outlined to his family all that he had learned

on the subject. Later in the year, there appeared "The Laboratory

in the Chest" and "The Mysteries of a Tea Kettle," no doubt derived

in part from the same source. In fact, throughout the whole long

course of publication there was a constant stream of articles on

science and invention: "The Planet Watchers of Greenwich," "A

Shillings Worth of Science," "Ballooning," "India Rubber," "Some

Accounts of Chloroform," "Electric Light," and many others.

Brief biographical articles were scattered almost equally at

random throughout Household Words. They included Peter the Great! / Fanny Burney; the piano manufacturer, Pierre Erard; the two poisoners, 9

Mme, Ursinus and the Marquis de Brinvilliers; Handel; Napoleon; Robert

Burns; Dr. Johnson; Lesage, the author of Gil Bias; and the

philosopher, Pierre Ramus, There were literary articles, among others,

on Pepys* Diary, Margaret Fuller, Beowulf, Hazlitt’s works, the poems

of Caedmon, Hamlet, Robert Herrick, Carlyle’s Frederick the Great, the

Celtic bard Oisin, and a warmly appreciative review of Turgenev’s

beautiful Sportsman's Sketches in its first English translation. A

fresh fusion in the journal between classic and contemporary works

made it possible to appeal to nearly every taste in literature.

The most characteristic feature articles found in Household

Words, however, developed around current problems. Hardly a week went

by in which some abuse was not attacked, The journal consistently

opposed racial, national, religious, and class prejudices. It

crusaded against illiteracy, in favor of government aid for public

education and free elementary and industrial schools for the poor, 197 20 for cheap and unlimited water, and for proper sewage disposal. It demanded the replacement of slums by decent housing for the poor,

pleaded for the establishment of playgrounds for children, and

advocated systematic municipal planning. It supported thoughtful

prison reform but protested against coddling criminals. If the

government would devote half the sums spent on-jails, argued the voice of Household Words, to improve the surroundings and training capacities of the innocent, it would not have to exert so much effort in a largely unsuccessful attempt to reform the guilty. This periodical insisted that industrialists must not be allowed to mutilate 10

and kill their laborers in order to save the cost of preventing

accidents. x It supported the right of the workingman to use his

power and force the government to remedy the ills from which poor

men suffer. The voice dominating nearly all of these articles

represented an uncompromising humanitarian radicalism. Week after

week Dickens and his cohorts hammered away wielding every conceivable

rhetorical weapon: reasoned argument, facts and figures, repetition,

cajolery, insinuation, humor, irony, parable, sarcasm, and angry diatribe. Household Words with a predominance of its articles coming

from this area reveals a striking testimony to Dickens' policy on most

of the problems of 19th century society. But more than that, they are

a proof of his editorial skill as well. For unlike the liberal-radical magazines of today, Household Words was not limited to a small specialized group of intellectuals but a huge and steadily growing audience ranging in both directions from the middle and upper classes.

The secret lies in the pattern of broad appeal to which almost every number of Household Words conforms—a pattern that explains how Dickens could persuade his readers to swallow so much radicalism along with their entertainment. Although Household Words fought on every issue its conductor had at heart, it never limited itself to crusading.

Among the six to nine items filling its t went y-^-f our pages there were never more than two or three devoted to reform causes in any one number. This pattern of articles combined with Dickens' vigilance as editor resulted in a weekly journal which became the hallmark for popular periodicals in the period. 11

"Conducted" by Charles Dickens

Probably the most important factor that explains the success of Household Words was Dickens’ consideration of the feelings of his readers. All of the following references illustrate his editorial sensing of his public. Most of them might be attributed to an effort not to offend as a matter of business; they might also be attributed to his own good nature, his real love for his public, and a feeling of identity with his audience.

To begin with, he did not consider himself "above" his readers.

He wrote to Wills,October 12, 1852, saying, "I don't think that it is necessary to write down to any part of our audience. I always hold Ob this to be as great a mistake as can be made." Another instance in which Dickens revealed himself to be a writer who was deeply moved by his love of his reading public occurred in 1855 when Charles Knight was inclined to think harshly of the English public because of its fondness for fiction. Dickens, "in the most earnest and affectionate

Spirit," reproached Knight in these terms:

The English are, as far as I know, the hardest working people on whom the sun shines. Be content if in their wretched intervals of leisure they read for amusement and do no worse. They are born at the oar, and they live and die at it. Good God, x-ihat would you have them dol25

On one occasion Dickens directed Wills to tone down a passage in one of Horne's articles regarding a sentence pronounced by the

Roman Catholic Church. His directions were, "At the end of the third paragraph from the commencement, instead of 'fanatical sentence was 12

carried into execution,* read 'Sentence of the Holy Catholic Church

was carried in Christian execution." ° From one point of view this

was a deliberate editorial effort to avoid offending Catholic

subscribers; seen from another, it was a decent, human desire to

avoid offending the Catholic people.

On still another occasion, Holme Lee (Miss Harriet Parr)

submitted a story to Household Words entitled "Gilbert Massinger,"

dealing with hereditaiy insanity. Dickens was greatly impressed by

the story, but he found it unfit for publication in his journal. Out

of consideration for those of his readers who might have been living

under the shadow of congenital insanity, he decided to reject the

story. In explaining this rejection, he wrote to Wills.:

So many unhappy people are, by no fault of their own, linked to a similar terrible possibility—even probability— that I am afraid it might cause prodigious unhappiness, if we could address it to our large audience. I shrink from the responsibility of awakening so much slumbering fear and despair. Most unwillingly therefore, I come to the apprehension that there is no course but to return it to the authoress.

After Wills relayed the rejection of this article tr> Miss Parr,

Dickens himself wrote a long and appreciative letter to her setting

forth his reasons for refusing her manuscript and hinting he would be willing to aid in finding a publisher. ° Editorial instinct for

his readers and human instinct for a struggling unknown writer seem

to be evident in Dickens’ conduct on this occasion,

Dickens also was aware that the moral image of Household Words was formed by the subject matter within the articles. A certain Miss

Lynn submitted her first article, "French Love," to Household Words 13

in the autumn of 1854. Dickens thought it might awaken a "vague

impression of" Household Words "being ill conditioned and inopportune." He instructed Wills to "pay for it, and let it stand over."29 The

article was never published yet Dickens avoided discouraging the

authoress by paying for the article. Possibly human instinct flowed

more readily from the conductor’s personality when the weaker sex was

involved, but more probable is his concern to maintain the image of

the heart and hearth in his weekly periodical. The development of

Dickens’ editorial instinct in the areas of general policy and methods

(such as the art of serialization) defined the limitations to which

all contributors and staff members3® eventually subscribed if their

articles were printed in Household Words.

Editorial honesty was the fundamental principle upon which

Dickens’ journals were built. This policy developed in two directions:

first, Dickens demanded of himself, and others, complete honesty of

motive; and secondly, he demanded accuracy in the handling and presentation of facts.31

Dickens considered himself personally responsible to the public for the truth and authenticity of every article that went into his periodicals because none of the articles and few of the stories were signed, but were to express the collective opinion of the whole staff.Such was his purpose when he wrote Mrs. Gaskell on

January 31« 1850» "• • • every paper will be published without any signature, and will seem to express the mind and general purpose of the journal."33 On March 5» 1853, Household Words published an article, "Gold and Silver Diets," by a Mr. Dodd, which contained, unknown to the editors, inaccurate statements, and on March 18th, after Dickens had learned of Dodd’s errors, he gave William Wills specific instructions about the handling of Dodd’s second contribution, named "India Rubber."

It must be closely inquired into, and I should wish to have, separately, whatever Mr. Dodd may have to say on each head in which the fact is stated to be against him. Because if it should turn out-—which it may not—that he has again committed and misled us immediately after "Gold and Silver Diets," it is quite clear it won’t do. Nothing can be so damaging to Household Words as carelessness about facts. It is as hideous as dullness.34

Dickens was just as meticulous about correct facts when they were used in social grievance articles and would not always trust his own judgment as final. When considering an article written by

Richard Henry Horne dealing with the Sanitary Commission, Dickens, through Wills, referred it to his brother-in-law, Henry Austin, secretary to the Commission, saying,

I think it unlikely that Horne may unintentionally commit uS to some mistake on the Series question, without careful revision. Will you show Henry Austin the proof, and read it with him? We shall then be quite safe.

Another important concept in Dickens’ image of honesty had to do with originality. He hated plagiarism because it hindered the natural development of literary style of a contributor, and also infringed upon the lawful rights of an author.3^ A specific example of this attitude was furnished in December I85O, when he said to

Wills, "I have taken out the cripple in the Railway paper, because he has hobbled bodily out of Head's book."^ 15

One more reference which involved an entire article will suffice to show exactly how Dickens regarded plagiarism. In dealing with a paper named "White Feather," he wrote to Wills on September 5» 1855» and said:

I have a very strong misgiving that "White Feather" is plagiarized from an old paper in Blackwood—one of the stories of the "Nights of Mess," I think. I am perfectly sure there is a well-known paper, originally published in Blackwood, working out the same idea. White Qieverend James, contributor to Dickens’ periodical is coming here . . • tonight, and I will consult his remembrance about it . . .„in the meantime the "White Feather" must stand over ....

On September 11, Dickens gave Wills his final decision on the origin of the paper, saying it was "taboo" on the ground of its strong 39 resemblance, in idea, to the "Sir Frizzle Pumpkin" story. It never appeared in a Dickens-edited periodical.

At the same time Dickens was establishing editorial policy for his journal, he was also paying close attention to many small, but important details in. the workmanship of individual articles. His hand was everywhere—supplying titles, criticizing stories, eliminating fuzzy or pretentious verbiage, rewriting passages and injecting color, tightening structure, sharpening clarity, and cutting out dull ¿4-0 passages. Charles Dickens, the younger, successor to his father as Editor of All the Year Round published an article in 1889, under the title "Dickens as Editor," in which he gave a vivid picture of his father in action:

. . .nothing better illustrates his indomitable energy, and the boundless capacity for taking pains which distinguished him than the strenuous manner in which the editorial duties of those journals (Household Words and All the Year Round] 16

were discharged .... A description of one particular set of proofs which he gave in a letter to Mr. Forster may stand for the description of many others. "I have had a story" he wrote in I856, "to hack and hew into some form for Household Words this morning which has taken me four hours of close attention. And I am perfectly addled by its want of continuity after all, and the dreadful spectacle I have made of the proofs—which look like an inky-fishing-net." I became very familiar with those "inky-fishing-nets" in later years and it is possible that, when the fishing net method was employed on my work of my own, I hardly appreciated the assiduity and painstaking care of the editor so well as when some other contributor provided the corpus vile • • • , 1

Nothing was considered too small, no detail too petty for the personal

attention of Dickens. Again the letters from Dickens to W.H. Wills,

his sub-editor, confirm the observation made by Dickens the younger.

A few references from the letters illustrate Dickens' general method.

Even style, punctuation, grammar, and syntax came under Dickens’

scrutiny. "See to the dashes," he wrote Wills, when he was about to publish Hanney's "Graves and Epitaphs," "They are at present

innumerable."^ On July. 30, I85I, after going over a number for the second time, he wrote his sub-editor the following:

I have gone through the No, since returning home. Again I observe one or two articles in a very slovenly state, both as to the Queen's English and pointing. I have not had time to set them quite right. I wish you would look ^t the proof I have sent Greenings to understand what I mean.

That his attention to details continued unabated through the years may be gathered by glancing almost at random through his letters to Wills. On October 18, 1858, when writing his directions for the assembling of a Number, Dickens directed the inclusion of Charles

Collins' "The Great Dunkerque Failure," but added in parentheses, 17

"(Let me see the proof of any other printed paper by him. A very

little erasure here and there, make a considerable difference in his case,)"**** In other instances Dickens attention would be attracted

to content and structure, expecially in fiction contributions, Mrs,

Gaskell’s "The Heart of John Middleton" was very good, he commented,

but the girl crippled by a stone hitting her in the back was going

to remind readers of other victims of accident in her stories, "the

girl who fell down at the Well, and the child who tumbled down stairs,

I wish to Heaven her people would keep a little firmer on their legs I"45 When Dickens read Harriet Martineau’s "The Home of the

Woodruffe Gardener," he criticized the ending for being far too long-

winded. "I have cut Woodruffe as scientifically as I can, and I

don’t think Miss Martineau would exactly know where.Practically

every article and story that went into his journals went through his

hands; many of them were drastically revised, and nearly all received

some finishing touches.

What has been said thus far about Dickens' editorial methods

has applied to individual articles; but he sometimes ruthlessly criticized finished numbers, often breaking up and rearranging them,47

Of course, this caused a great deal of extra work for everyone from

"the Conductor" to the printer. Dickens generally kept his numbers made up four weeks in advance of actual publication, and for this

reason he was able to break up numbers without doing violence to b Q his general plans. ° For instance, there was a general breaking up

of the number to be released on August 20, 1853« From Boulogne, 18

Dickens wrote Wills the following criticisms and suggestions:

In the first place the No, is an awfully and solemnly heavy one—and, if you have any kind of means to that end by you, must really be lightened. I read it last night, and had a nightmare. I doubt if anything so heavy (excep stewed lead) could possibly be taken before going to bed. 7

A further analysis of the breaking up and rearrangement of this

number will throw additional light on Dickens* editorial methods.

He suggested changes in titles, alterations, rearrangements of

materials, expurgations, and editorial explanations. As to titles

he said, "’Justice to Bears,' The name won't do. We have had ’Justice

to Hyenas."' After suggesting "Brother Bruin" as a better title,

the editor wrote what he thought would be an ideal opening sentence.

The article was written by M, Toussenel; for some of the opinions advanced therein Dickens did not wish to assume the responsibility.

He instructed Wills to make it clear throughout the article "that it is M. Toussenel who is speaking, and not H.W. conducted by C.D."

"Gore House" he considered poor and recommended that certain portions be deleted. Then he remembered "Licensed to Juggle," and said, "Look to the slang talk of it and don't let 'Ya* stand for 'You.' 'The

Stereoscope* is dreadfully literal. Some fancy must be got into the No . . . ,"50 These typical and detailed letters to Wills show that

Dickens' method of editing demanded great exactness and extremely methodical habits.

One point indirectly touched upon earlier was Dickens' use of human instinct when advising new, struggling writers, A far greater challenge which he mastered as a magazine editor was the management 19 of experienced and capable writers. Wilkie Collins did not fall into

this group because he was not widely published when he joined the

staff of Household Words. Instead he belonged to those writers

(Dickens’ young men) who gradually developed into highly skilled

contributors. Mrs. Gaskell belonged to the former category and

probably gave Dickens far greater trouble than any member of the

young group. Through the Dickens-Gaskell relationship it is possible

to see more editorial methods (especially in serialization) being

developed by Dickens and it will eventually provide a basis of

comparison of Collins’ ability to adjust to many of the editorial

techniques which were obstacles to other writers—even the established

ones,

From the beginning, Dickens knew that Mrs. Gaskell had difficulty in keeping her shorter articles and stories to a suitable length for his journals. Yet he was always the perfect gentleman in his tactful admonitions.^ The problems of condensing especially the dialogue and dividing the material into suitable installments became more acute during the period when Mrs. Gaskell was writing North and South for Household Words.3^ Dickens was aware of a drop in circulation and attributed it to the fact that Mrs, Gaskell did not fully consent to the conditions of serial pattern.

The outcome of this relationship revealed the editor’s ability to hold valuable writers; for at the conclusion of the story, Dickens did not lose Mrs, Gaskell as a contributor. On January 27, 1855» he wrote her the following diplomatic letter, which seems to have closed 20

the issue between them:

Let me congratulate you on the conclusion of your story; not because it is the end of a task to which you have conceived a dislike (for I imagine you have gotten the better of that illusion by this time), but because it is a vigorous and powerful accomplishment of an anxious labour. It seems to me that you have felt the ground thoroughly firm under your feet, and have strided/ with force and a purpose that must now give you pleasure. You will not, I hope, allow that non-Iucid interval of dissatisfaction with yourself (and me?), which beset you for a minute or two once upon a time, to linger in the shape of disagreeable association with Household Words. I shall look forward to the large sides of paper, and shall soon feel disappointed if they don’t begin to reappear. 3

About two months after Dickens had written Mrs. Gaskell the letter cited above, he wrote to Wilkie Collins what really happened.

Dickens admitted that he was right and, in a few words, gave an account of the whole situation. On March 24, 1855» be said:

You have guessed right! The best of it was that she (Mrs, Gaskell) wrote to Wills, saying that she must particularly stipulate not to have her proofs touched, "even by Mr. Dickens." That immortal creature had gone over the proofs ^North and South) with great pains—had of course taken out the stiflings—hardplugings, lungings, and other convulsions—and had also taken out her weakenings and damagings of her own effects, "Very Well," said the gifted Man, "she shall have her own way. But after it’s published show her this proof, and ask her to consider whether her story would have been better or worse for it.

It is possible that Mrs. Gaskell learned her final lesson; that she saw what she made of her story; that she realized that it had all but failed as a serial; that she saw what Dickens could have made of it. Even more important is the fact that Wilkie Collins sensed the conflict between the Editor-in-Chief and an established writer before he became a regular contributor to the journal. Collins’ development 21

as a popular writer for Household Words was in part dependent on his

ability to adjust to Dickens’ editorial methods.

The final phase of Dickens’ editorial methods is more difficult

to define because it is related to the stylistic literary concept

called tone. None the less this concern for tone on the part of

Dickens will be one of the keys to the success of Wilkie Collins as a

regular contributor for Household Words.

Maintenance of the Heart and Hearth

We now turn to an aspect of Dickens * editorial policy that had to do with tone—his unremitting efforts to infuse the "light of fancy, " into all that went into his pages» Household Words opened with a promise that "in the bosoms of the young and the old, of the well-to-do and the poor, we would tenderly cherish that light of fancy which is inherent in the human breast . . . Dickens' frequent remarks on "fancy" were more than pretty phrases, with certain euphuistic qualities; their expression was a sincere, genuine effort to saturate the tone of Household Words in the warm glow of this word.

In one respect Dickens was trying to revive the ’word "fancy" since most men of literature and poetic theory had nearly forgotten or dismissed it as being an inferior device, partially because

Coleridge had assigned it a secondary position below the creative power of the imagination. Not that Dickens tried to redefine the word as such, but he did attempt to show its utility especially when writing for a mass reading public who could be delighted and entertained by 22

the rearrangement of common everyday experiences in a new and

refreshing presentation. Hopefully "elegance of fancy" will define itself through numerous illustrations in this introduction. It always carries the prerequisite of capturing the readers' attention so that they may escape from the reality of their situations, whatever they may be. The illustrations will show Collins' imagination functions in two broad approaches to accomplish "elegance of fancy," namely that of sensationalism and whimsical humor.

In October, I85I, an important discussion of the "elegance of fancy" entered into the correspondence of Dickens and Wills, The former had been looking over the back numbers of Household Words and discovered what he thought to be a lack of the very element he had promised his readers would grace every page. When he communicated his thoughts to Wills, he said, "I have been looking back over the

Numbers. Wherever they fail, it is wanting in elegance of fancy.

They lapse too much into a dreary, arithmetical Cocker-cum-Walkingame dustyness (jsicJ that is powerfully depressing.In reply to that letter Wills wrote in a vein of experience and wisdom that makes clear why Dickens found in him a most able, trustworthy, and intelligent aid. Wills' letter bears the date of October 17, 1851. He began by saying that the only fair test of the contents.of Household Words was to compare it with other publications of the same class. "From such a comparison," he said, "we come out brilliantly in the very excellence which you say we want—fancy." The sub-editor mentioned that it was universally acknowledged that Household Words treated 23 the most "uninviting" subjects with more fancy than any other existing weekly periodical. But there are exceptions to all rules, and once in a while the demand to fill space may overcome every editor. Then in the midst of this letter, Wills made some very wise observations:

Not one, not even yourself (as you said the other day) can sparkle to order, especially writers who had only an occasional sparkle in them. As to the "Elegance of Fancy" you desiderate, that, I apprehend, is simply impossible as the prevailing characteristic of twenty-four pages of print published fifty-two times a year. Elegance of fancy cannot be thrown broadcast over such an acreage of letter-press; although, happily for Household Words (and for Household Words alone) it can be sprinkled over its pages?37

Wills continued to point out what was literally a fact, that those articles and numbers which had received most of Dickens’ personal attention possessed the most "elegance of fancy." He was delighted when Dickens hinted that he would give more time to direct editorial work than he had up to this time. With the beginning of 1852, Dickens did devote more time to Household Words; this was the same year that

Dickens published the first contributions by Wilkie Collins in

Household Words During the next two and a half years Dickens published three short fiction serials by Collins: "Gabriel’s Marriage"

(1853), "Sister Rose" (1855), and "The Yellow Mask" (1855). They contain the typical melodramatic themes and dark, sensational elements which are the well-known trademarks of Collins’.entire canon of fiction including the later novels. No doubt Dickens recognized undeveloped potential in Wilkie’s writing and he also perceived a potential resource of "elegance of fancy" strategically needed for his journal.

Consequently, Dickens took great interest in Wilkie’s development and 24

showed his admiration and trust in his newly discovered author by

making him the main collaborator for the extra Christmas Numbers from

1854 onward.From these beginnings in the short story Collins

eventually was to discover, with the gentle assistance of Dickens,

that his potential as a popular journal contributor could be expanded

to include other prose forms and subject matter such as the travel

journal, the historical and biographical sketch, and finally the

personal and informal essay.

Tele mac hus and the Mentor^

It is unfortunate that hardly a single letter from Wilkie

Collins to Dickens survives. In September i860, Dickens, incensed by what he considered "the misuse of the private letters of public men"6l burned in the field at Gad’s Hill every letter he possessed which did not deal exclusively with business and was determined to destroy all such letters in the future as soon as they were answered.

It is ironic that while so much biographical detail concerning other figures went up in smoke, more than six thousand letters of Dickens have since been published. Those written to Wilkie Collins, interest­ ing as they are, afforded only an occasional reflection of Wilkie’s personality. However, some of these letters, as well as the ones written by Dickens to Wills, reveal not only the developing friendship between them but also the developing relationship between Collins the writer and Dickens the editor. Almost one hundred letters were written by Dickens to Collins in the course of their nineteen years 25 of association, which was terminated by Dickens' death in June 1870.

Some letters contained advice and criticism of Collins' work but it was always expressed in a positive or praiseworthy manner. The real tragedy lies in the destruction of Collins' letters to Dickens which probably would have revealed his attitude toward Dickens and a certain amount of criticism and commentary about the stories and articles he submitted to the two journals.

In view of the many friends and acquaintances they had in common, it is remarkable that Wilkie Collins and Charles Dickens did not meet before 1851. Dickens was directing Bulwer-Lytton's comedy Not So Bad As We Seem for a group of amateur players in March of that year. After Wills declined to take a part, Dickens, upon the advice of Augustus Egg, offered it to Collins. Egg, who assisted not only at the Blanford Square theatricals but also at the grander entertainments organized by Dickens at his house in Devonshire

Terrace, received the following letter from Dickens, written on

March 8, 1851:

My dear Egg—I think you told me that Mr. Wilkie Collins would be glad to play any part in Bulwer's Comedy; and I think I told you that I considered him a very desirable recruit. There is a valet, called (as I remember) Smart— a small part, but, what there is of it, decidedly good; he opens the play—which I should be delighted to assign to him, and in which he would have an opportunity of dressing your humble servant, frothing some chocolate with an obsolete milling-machine that must be revived for the purpose, arranging the room, and dispatching other similar "business," dear to actors. Will you undertake to ask him if I shall cast him in this part? If yes, I will call him to the reading on Wednesday; have the pleasure of leaving my card for him (say where), and beg him to favor us with his company at dinner Wednesday evening. I knew his father well, and should be 26

glad to know him. Write me a word in answer, and believe me ever, Faithfully Yours, . Charles Dickens6

Wilkie did not delay in accepting the invitation and the two

writers met a few days later at Ivy Cottage, Egg’s house at

Bayswater. J At the time of this meeting, Wilkie had succeeded in

writing and publishing one novel, Antonina or The Fall of Rome; the

story had not been a success and Dickens never mentioned reading it.

In the early days immediately after their first meeting Dickens was

preoccupied with his amateur theatricals. The first letter in which

Dickens addressed Collins as a fellow-writer occurred after the

former’s reading of Basil or A Story of Modern Life. About twenty-five

letters after this one written late in December related partly or wholly to the development of Collins as a writer for Household Words— hence the necessity to continue a modified record of the more relevant

excerpts from this correspondence. The remainder of the introduction will concentrate on describing the variety of subject matter, forms,

techniques, and tone in Wilkie’s contributions.

In the fall of 1852, Collins finished Basil, and some time in 64 December presented a copy to Dickens,0 The latter’s first letter to

Collins acknowledged receiving the novel, pointed out weaknesses in the story, and praised the strong points. Dickens said he had read the book with "very great interest," and with a very thorough conviction that Collins "had a call to this same art of fiction«"

After mentioning what seemed to him objectionable in the handling of 27

exposition, Dickens added:

But the story contains admirable writing and many clear evidences of a very delicate descrimination fsicj of character. It is delightful to find throughout that you have taken great pains with it besides, and have "gone at it" with a perfect knowledge of the jolterheadedness of conceited idiots who suppose that volumes are to be tossed off like pancakes, and that any writing can be done without the utmost application, the greatest patience, and the steadiest energy of which the writer is capable.°5

The remarks quoted above are valuable in that they give an

understanding of at least some of the points Dickens valued highly in the young writer—"delicate descrimination [sicJ of character, " "great

pains," "utmost application," "greatest patience," and "steadiest

energy."

Three days later Dickens followed up his letter with an

invitation requesting Collins* company at a dinner in the city, from

which he proposed that they "go and look at Christmas Eve in Whitechapel."66 Then followed other invitations "to the glories of

the eccentric British Drayma (sicj" and to dinner at Dickens’

*» residence, Tavistock House.6? These invitations were sent in a note

dated January 18, 1853« but it was not until February 8, 1853, that

Dickens proposed that Wills make a business appointment with Collins.

Little by little during the months between the presentation of Basil

and February of the new year, Dickens had been breaking through the

rather shy and cool reserve of Wilkie’s nature. Sometime during this

warming-up period, Collins had been brought around to offer a story

to Household Words; his story, "Mad Monkton," had to do with hereditary z o insanity. Dickens objected to the "range of the subject,"DO wrote 28

to Wills proposing a meeting between Wills and Collins which might

prove useful to Household Words. The important portions of this letter

of February 8, 1853, follow:

I think the best way will be for you to make an appointment with Collins, and talk to him on the subject inclosed . • • • I think there are many things, both in the inventive and descriptive way, that he could do for us if he would like to work in our direction. And I particularly wish him to understand this, and to have every possible assurance conveyed to him that I should particularly like to have his aid. See if you can strike out one or two subjects while with you, to begin upon. '

The result of these early negotiations between Wills and Collins

was the publication in Household Words on April 16th and 23rd of the

latter’s story, "Gabriel’s Marriage" (to be discussed shortly).

Between September and December, Collins accompanied Dickens and

Augustus Egg on a tour to Switzerland and Italy. For the greater part

of the next three years, Dickens kept in close touch with Wilkie. In

the spring of 1855 they were in Paris together; again in 1856, Dickens

was in Paris wishing Collins to join him in order that they might do

a series of papers on that city."^ It is during these early years

of association with Dickens and his journal that Collins contributed

mainly short fiction, either a short story in one installment or a

short serial of two or four installments.' Within these short

stories the elements of melodrama thrive; sensational, violent, and

romantic action is often blended with extravagant emotions and topped off with a happy ending.^ Add to this his ability to create suspense by restraining the progress of action while giving foreboding warnings

of what is to come, a generous dash of sentimentality and a constant 29 awareness of fatality, and the end product is certain to be some of

the most exciting and memorable fiction ever contributed to Household

Words (at least from the point-of-view of the Victorian readers). By today’s standards this formula and the emotional responses anticipated from the reader seem rather shallow and artificial until it is remembered that Dickens used these stories to nourish the reading public’s need for "elegance of fancy" despite their rather macabre flavor. Needless to say we must make some adjustment in our critical attitudes since we are living in an age one-hundred years removed from mid-Victorian popular tastes, and yet our television public avidly supports the macabre "soap opera" called "Dark Shadows."

The Darker Forms: The Short Fiction and the Historical Sketch

£Wilkie Collins used two basic melodramatic themes in his early short stories appearing in Household Words—namely the "dead-alive" theme and the "hide and seek" theme. The names are borrowed by me from the titles of later works by Collins. JL-Wilkie’s first major contribution to Household Words, "Gabriel’s

Marriage," contains both the "dead-alive" and the "hide and seek" themesA young French fisherman, Gabriel Sarzeau, watches by the bedside of his dying grandfather throughout a wild, stormy night, and waits hopelessly for the return of his father, Franpois Sarzeau, who has been caught by a storm while fishing. The grandfather, who has

"raised himself into a sitting position,has a terrible vision in which he imagined that he saw his son drowning. In the absence 30

of a priest, the old man then confesses to a fearful crime committed by him and François in this very room about ten years earlier.

François had stabbed and robbed a young traveller who had begged shelter for the evening, and then had compelled his father to help carry the body across the heath and hide it under the Druid monument known as Merchant's Table; neither of them dared visit that place . again. To complicate the plot Collins introduces the "dead-alive" theme, for François returns, upon which the grandfather uses his last breath to retract the whole confession, thus leaving Gabriel in a state of doubt. The theme occurs again at the climax of the story, when Gabriel is about to be married. The visiting priest, Father

Paul, noticing Gabriel’s troubled frame of mind, persuades him to divulge what is worrying him; then as Paul reveals a scar on his throat, he tells Gabriel that he was the traveller who had been left for dead under the Merchant’s Table.Later Francois repents, and

Father Paul departs by sea, as he had arrived, [in "Gabriel's

Marriage" the theme is thus the heart of the story, motivating characters and shaping the plot.}

("This "hide and seek” theme appears as only a minor incident in "Gabriel’s Marriage" .rather than as a major motivational factor, but is nonetheless indicative of Collins’ practice.] Gabriel, anxious to learn the truth about his father, was determined to find the body of the murdered man whom François was to have hidden under the

Merchant’s Table. This episode is described at length, and embellished with some mystifying details. As he sets out, Gabriel notices his 31

father on the other of the two roads leading to the same spot but going in the opposite direction—-an odd circumstance in view of the fact that Franyois might have been expected to show anxiety about

removing all traces of the crime. It is revealed later that Franyois had doubled back in order to follow Gabriel, Minor as the incident is, it showed a development in the presentation of conflicting interests, and from the descriptive detail it becomes evident that the sequence was meant to create suspense, ^Collins uses the "hide and seek" theme, this time as central in "The Fourth Poor Traveller" or "A Stolen Letter," his contribution to the 1854 Christmas Number.J The story deals with the efforts of a lawyer to recover an incriminating letter from a blackmailer. After discovering that the latter does not carry it about with him, the lawyer contrives a means of searching the man’s room in the inn where he is staying. Deciphering an obscure memorandum taken from the blackmailer’s clothes while they were being pressed, the lawyer finally discovers the letter hidden beneath the carpet. ^Because of the brevity of the story, the presentation of the theme is neither complex nor extended^

^The theme next appears as a climax to the short serial "The

Yellow Mask," although the rest of the story is composed of other elements j) (Part of them will be included in later discussion.) The superstitious young widower, Count Fabio, about to make his first public appearance after his wife’s death, is greatly alarmed by the following passage in an anonymous letter which he has received: 32

"’If you would let your wife lie easy in her grave, if you would avoid a terrible warning, go not to the masked ball!’" 7^ spite of his fears he goes to the ball, where he is constantly haunted by a mysterious female figure wearing a yellow mask. Finally he forces the woman to unmask and is confronted by what he thinks is the face of his dead wife. He swoons and goes into a decline. His friends, aware that the phenomenon was merely part of an elaborate plot, know that they can not convince him of this rational explanation unless they could produce evidence to substantiate it. The plot develops into a search for the mask made from the dead woman’s statue and worn at the ball. ‘Q'his version of the theme involved the sifting of evidence and a great amount of coincidence, both prominent elements in Collins' fictionTj

j^The short serial "The Diary of Anne Rodway" contains among other melodramatic elements the "hide and seek" theme. On this occasion the objective of the search is a man. A lachrymose tale, it concerns the misfortunes of Anne Rodway, a needlewoman, left destitute in London during the absence of her lover.} Her misery was aggravated by the mysterious murder of her friend, Mary Mallinson, the only clue to the crime being the end of a man’s cravat clutched in her hand. A long sequence develops in which Anne tries to trace the murderer. A trail of clues, beginning with the discovery of the rest of the cravat, having fortuitously come to light, she eventually learns the whereabouts of the murderer, and with the aid of her lover, who has by this time returned to London, she causes 33 the criminal to be brought to justice, (^Collins usually redeems his excesses of sentimentality by an admixture of these elements of mystery and suspense which were his forte in fiction.!)

'(JThe theme of fatality was present in some form in almost everything Collins wrote, always with this basic dark definition: a malignant force directed the characters toward a predestined end.

As one of them said, "L^y actions were governed by a fatality which no human force could alter or avoid. "7? Sometimes however, the characters were unaware of this force, which was introduced by references in the author’s own person, evidently with the intention of imparting a deeper overtone to the story. As a rule, this governing fatality is made manifest to the characters themselves in several ways: by intuition, by the supernatural, by phenomena in nature, and by dreams—the latter being one of Collins’ favorite devices. At first dreams are used as isolated incidents in many of his short stories and later as an entire superstructure of Armadale, Collins’ longest and most elaborate novel. Z—* [(The Yellow Mask" uses the theme in an original manner/ The villain, Father Rocco, anxious to acquire Count Fabio’s estates, and therefore determined to prevent him from remarrying, plants the idea of fate in Fabio’s mind by seiiding him the anonymous letter and then asking him mockingly, "Do you suspect the powers of the other world of interfering with mortals at masquerades?Immediately Fabio begins to feel "some strange influence" preventing him from attending the ball. The plot succeeds perfectly, for after Fabio sees what he imagines to be the face of his dead wife, "Nothing will rouse him

from his delusion that he is the victim of a supernatural inter- 79 position." Since Fabio eventually accepted the rational explanation,

it would seem as if the story were, in part, an expose of fatalism;

but it has a surprise ending. Father Rocco's conspiracy to prevent

Fabio’s marriage was foiled by a girl, Nanina, whose marriage to Fabio

had been prevented by Father Rocco. In answering his own question—

"’Can this be the decree of Heaven—or is it nothing but the blind

justice of chance?'"—Father Rocco said to Nanina—"'A fatality has

been accomplished through you.'" ¿Thus although the story uses

merely one of the ways in which fatalism manifested itself—the

intuition of the characters—it exploits that way with completeness

and originality, and was an integral part of the plot, since characters

are consciously motivated by it} Cln the short story "The Dream Woman" or "The Ostler" from the Holly-Tree Inn published in the 1855 Christmas Number, the theme of fatality is presented through the fulfillment of dreams. That

Collins considered it to be one of his most representative stories seems evident from the fact that on his reading tour of America in

1873-4, it shared the program with "The Frozen Deep, " a melodrama— 8ll later adapted into a short story which contained the same element.__j

An ostler, Isaac Scotchard, forced to spend the night at a lonely inn, has a strange experience. He awakens, or thinks he does, to find a beautiful woman with a buck-horn clasp-knife in her hand advancing toward his bed. She stabbed twice, but each time he eludes 35 her, and when the flame of the candle dies, she disappears. There were no cuts on the bed, the doors were all barred, and the landlord insisted that Scotchard must have been dreaming. On his return home, his mother, who writes down all details, discovers that the apparition appeared to him on his birthday at the exact hour, two o’clock in the morning, when he was born. Seven years later, Scotchard meets and secretly courts a beautiful woman, Rebecca I-iurdock. Her face is vaguely familiar to him, but it remains for his mother, from the written description she has kept, to identify Rebecca as the Dream

Woman. After the marriage Scotchard and his mother gradually become estranged, while the evil in Rebecca’s nature begins to appear. The mother, now dying, visits Rebecca to remonstrate with her and finds to her horror that Rebecca is slicing bread with a buck-horn clasp- knife like the one in Isaac’s dream. The effect on Scotchard is immediate:

The visible tangible reality of the knife struck him with a panic; and utterly destroyed any faint doubts that he might have entertained up to this time in relation to the mysterious dream-woman of nearly eight years before.

He feels, however, that by getting possession of the knife he can prevent the fulfillment of the rest of the dream; but he merely succeeds in striking his wife and causing her to run away. Some nights later he awakens to find her bending over him in the attitude of the

Dream Woman, with the knife in her hand. After seizing the knife, he drives her from the house just as the clock struck two—"The fatal parallel was complete; it was his birthday." ["The Dream Woman" is 36

unique in that fatalism was the sole interest of the story? rational

explanation was not offered for the dream (this was Dickens' only

criticism), and the story ended with the disappearance of the woman

and her knife?/

^In "The Diary of Anne Rodway" (1856) the theme of fate is again

introduced through the fulfillment of dreams'?) In the hand of her

murdered friend, the heroine finds the end of a cravat. A few nights

later she has a strange dream in which the cravat becomes like a long

thread leading through infinite time and space to the truth. She

wonders what the meaning could be, "Is it always superstitious , . .

to believe that dreams may come true?"0 The clue of the cravat

eventually leads her to the murderer of her friend, £ln this story

Collins reverted to the method of Basil in which the details of the dream were symbolic rather than realistic. The dream merely serves to provide a supernatural overtone and is not an integral part of the plot?“

¡JDne observation or conclusion drawn from the theme of fatality

is that Collins, avoiding subplots, invariably follows an undeviating narrative line, which of necessity employs far fewer characters than do stories with parallel lines of interest. Plots dealing with such elements as mysterious identities and secret relationships are thus bound to entail a considerable amount of coincidence, for a character who was investigating them usually found that all the clues, and sometimes the object of the search itself, were contained within the somewhat restricted circle of acquaintances provided for him by the 37

author. By an emphasis on fatalism, Collins was able to extenuate

this excessive use of coincidence; indeed the greater the coincidence,

the better it might be said to illustrate his theme of fatality. Thus

by calling attention to his weakest point he was cleverly able to

forestall criticism in that area?}

Qrhe subject matter of these early stories certainly fulfilled

Dickens’ requirement for "elegance of fancy" in the darkest sense

of the phrase. Such a story as "Gabriel’s Marriage," constructed

from mystery, delirium, death, and crime, was certain to attract

readers from all levels of society, including the Bditor-in-Chief.

"A strange feeling • . . that I could never adequately state if I were to try ever so hard"®5 drew him to this story as if by magnetism— s quite an admission for a man seldom at a loss for words. Of course

these darker elements were offset by acts of confession and redemption

which set the moral tone of the story and therefore made it possible

for Dickens to include it in Household Words. This same emphasis

on a positive moral lesson to be gained by the reader from the story

was utilized by Wilkie in order to have "Sister Rose" and "The Diary of Anne Rodway" admitted to the journal3

¡The theme of saving a life as an act of redemption and kindness

ultimately predominates in "Sister Rose.)' In the midst of the bloody

Reign of Terror a "ne'er do well" character, Lomaque, constantly worships Rose, the heroine and his employer’s wife, from afar. Dickens

never commented about this story in his letters, but he eventually

showed his respect and fascination for it by using a similar moral 38

theme, setting, and character type (Sidney Carton) in A Tale of Two

Cities (1859)«

As we previously noted, moral justice was served in "The Diary

of Anne Rodway" through the search and capture of a murderer. A

more sentimental and romantic action came at the conclusion of the

story when Anne and her beloved were able to marry because he had found

employment in "cruel" London, {it cannot be denied that the story is

overly sentimental and seems to be just what Dickens’ sentimental nature could respond to?] He first acquired the manuscript at the

Household Words London office before a brief trip from Boulogne on

July 2, 1856. As he returned to Boulogne on the railway, Dickens read

the work and wrote the following letter to Wilkie as a record of his

reaction:

IV behaviour before my fellow passengers was weak in the extreme . . . for I cried as much as you could possibly desire. Apart from the genuine force of the little narrative, and the admirable personations of the girl's identity and point of view, it is done with an amount of honest work which few men have better reason to appreciate than I, and which no man can have a more profound respect for. I think it excellent and feel a personal pride and pleasure in it which is a delightful sensation, and know no one else could have done it. 6

Collins knew how to draw emotional responses from his readers, but it would be unfair to completely dismiss the story as an exercise

in sentimentality and suspense. Woven between-these strands were brief glimpses into the lives of the lower classes in which Collins seemed to capture for the first time a sense of belonging to an inescapable community of suffering. He touched upon the need for writers to include reality in their fiction in the Preface to Basil (1852): 39

My idea was that the more of the Actual I could garner up as a text to speak from, the more certain I might feel of the genuineness and value of the Ideal which was sure to spring out of it. Fancy and Imagination, Grace and Beauty, all those qualities which are to the work of Art what scent and color are to the flower, can only grow toward heaven by taking root in the earth. Is not the noblest poetry of prose fiction the poetry of every-day truth?°?

He carried this idea further to include two subjects which are found

in "The Diary of Anne Rodway."

Nobody who admits that the business of fiction is to exhibit human life can deny that scenes of misery and crime must of necessity, while human nature remains what it is, form part of that exhibition. Nobody can assert that such scenes are unproductive of useful results when they are turned to a plainly moral purpose. ®

_The miserable situation of Anne and Mary, both working as needlewomen

to earn enough money to live a wretched existence, is certainly

grounded in "the poetry of every-day truth." But the way in which

Collins intensified their plight as heroine and victim in order to

eke out every possible tear from the reader interfered with the reality

of their situation and the resulting emotions appear forced and artificial. This was particularly true when Anne narrated and reacted to Mary's death. Yet Collins managed to become more objective through his narrator when she observed a comparatively insignificant character from the "everyday life" of "cruel" London?/ Anne was sitting with the unconscious and mortally wounded Mary when compassion came quietly from an unexpected source.

Just as the church clocks were striking four, I was startled by seeing the room door open. It was only Dusty Sal (as they call her in the house) the maid-of-all-work. She was wrapped up in a blanket off her bed; her hair was tumbled over her face; and her eyes were heavy with sleep, as she came up to 40

the bedside where I was sitting. "I've only two hours good before I begin to work," says she, in her hoarse, drowsy voice, "and I’ve come to sit up and take my turn at watching her. You lay down and get some sleep on the rug. Here's my blanket for you—I don't mind the cold—it will keep me awake." "You are very kind—very, very kind and thoughtful, Sally, " says I, "but I am too wretched in my mind to want my sleep, or rest, or to do anything but wait where I am, and try to hope for the best.” "Then I'll wait, too," says Sally. "I must do something} if there's nothing to do but waiting I'll wait." And she sat down opposite me at the foot of the bed, and drew the blanket close round her with a shiver. "After working so hard as you do, I'm sure you must want all the little rest you can get," says I. "Excepting only you," says Sally, putting her heavy arm clumsily, but very gently at the same time round Mary's feet, and looking hard at the pale still face on the pillow. "Excepting you she's the only soul in this house as never swore at me, or give me a hard word that I can remember. When you made puddings on Sundays, and give her half, she always give me a bit. The rest of 'em calls me Dusty Sal. Excepting only you, again, she always called me Sally as if she knowed me in a friendly way. I ain't no good here, but I ain't no harm neither? and I shall take my turn at the sitting up— that's what I shall do!" She nestled her head down close at Mary's feet as she spoke those words, and said no more. I once or twice thought she had fallen asleep, but whenever I looked at her, her heavy eyes were always wide open. She never changed her position an inch till the church clocks struck six; then she gave one little squeeze to Mary's feet with her arm, and shuffled out of the room without a word. A minute or two later I _ heard her down below, lighting the kitchen fire just as usual. '

■ When Sal returned, a short time later, Anne and she held a glass to

Mary's mouth to see if she was still alive.

Yes her breath did mark it, but very faintly. Sally cleaned the glass with her apron, and gave it back to me. As she did so she stretched out her hand to Mary's face, but drew it in again suddenly as if she was afraid of soiling Mary's delicate skin with her hard, horny fingers. Going out, she stooped at the foot of the bed, and scraped away a little patch of mud that was on one of Mary's shoes. "I always used to clean 'em for her," said Sally, "to save her hands from getting blacked. May I take 'em off now, and clean 'em again?"9 41

Later in the story Anne misses Dusty-Sal in the funeral procession. When the mourners arrive at the graveside, Dusty-Sal

is standing by the open grave:

"I couldn’t follow along with you," she said looking at her ragged shawl; "for I hav' nt[sicj a decent suit of clothes to walk in. I wish I could get vent in crying for her like you; but I can’t; all that crying's been drudged and starved out of me, long ago. Don't you think about lighting your fire when you get home. I'll do that, and get you a drop of tea to comfort you."°*

Passages such as these, where Collins described the awkward tenderness in the calloused hands of a pathetic, tearless maid-of-all-work, confirmed his great respect and admiration for Balzac as a writer who insisted on "presenting the dreary aspects of human life, literally, exactly, nakedly as he found them. "92 He did not parade Sal in front of his readers in social protest as he did when Mary was confronted with the high cost of a "respectable" pauper's funeral. Sal was that part of the human condition which only needed to be slightly observed in her miserable environment for an accurate depiction of "the poetry of every-day life."7-'

Another short prose form that Collins gradually began to dabble with was the historical sketch, which developed naturally from his fascination with French .history, particularly the French Revolution and the Reign of Terror«. At first he used this knowledge as realistic backdrops for some of the short fiction, including "Sister Rose."

Rose and her brother find themselves in St. Lazarre Prison sentenced to death on the guillotine just before the fall of Robspierre. Lomaque saves them by a desperate strategem in which he uses disappearing ink 42

to keep their names off the prison’s death lists for a few days, until

Robspierre has been assassinated, Dickens was willing to accept this

violence as long as it was viewed from a distance and did not dominate

the humane moral theme. There were, however, other potential

historical sketches which the "mentor" flatly refused. One such story

was "The Midnight Mass," a translation by Collins of an "Episode sous la Terreur" by Balzac.9^

Wilkie’s interest in French culture also included the works

of famous authors such as Soulie and Dumas in drama; and M. Richer and

Maurice Mejan in criminal history. The latter writers respectively Z s, Z published Causes Celebres et Interessantes (cases tried in the courts ✓ X before 1770), and Recueil des Causes Celebres (cases tried into the

Napoleonic period).95 No doubt the semi-historical sketches "The

Poisoned Meal," "Memories of an Adopted Son," and "The Caldron of Oil" relied heavily upon these two French studies.9^ Soulie and Dumas had

written plays about the self-exiled Queen Christina of Sweden who had

her lover, Monaldeschi, murdered at Fountainbleau, France. One of

these, probably Dumas, inspired Wilkie to write the story of the

murder in a sketch called "A Queen’s Revenge." Though "mentally distinguished by her capacities" according to Collins, she was "morally degraded by her vices and crimes."97 Christina condemns to death her

lover who has foolishly made fun of her to his new mistress, even

displaying her letters. The major part of the story deals with the

way in which the sentence is carried out. Christina, with "her cold

clear eyes," spurns all appeals for mercy, "I have said the words • . • 43 and no power under heaven shall make me unsay them,"9® Punishment

for her merciless crime soon follows, for she has to leave France,

the scene of the murder, and she finds that her own country, whose

throne she has abdicated refuses to accept her once more for its ruler.

The lesson intact, the sketch was published.

Although the historical sketches are interesting and entertain­

ing because of their "nook and cranny" subject matter, they are at best a second-hand recounting. [¡Even some of his short stories.may

remind the reader of other sensational craftsmen; "The Yellow Mask,"

for example, seems to be a contrived potboiler with certain episodes

that are shadowy imitations of Poe’s "Ligeia" and "The Masque of the

Red Death.j/’ Still more irritating is the fact that this story has been recently re-published in paperback as being representative of

Collins’ art.99 On the other hand there has been a complete neglect

of the informal personal essays and the character sketches, though in number they represent more than one-half of the short articles that

Wilkie contributed to the two Dickens' journals. Critics have assumed that these miscellaneous pieces were extraneous to evaluating the fiction since they are decidedly different in form, structure, content, and tone. Although the point may be valid, at the same time the critics have been ignoring Collins as a popular journalist in his own age. Even critical biographers have helped to obscure this cause when they have given such anemic, cursory, and vague commentary about these articles:

The humorous articles, in which he was trying to copy Dickens’ journalistic style, are for the most part ponderous 44

and exhibit a tendency which he was never able to keep completely under control, perhaps at best described as literary archness.100

This statement is supposed to adequately evaluate nearly ten formative years in the career of an author who observed life around him and 101 attempted to interpret it for a mass reading public.

Hopefully, the reader will perceive that Collins’ humor can be more subtle than that of Dickens and that this was partially accomplished through the point-of-view used in Collins’ writing.

Through this mask of dry, urbane wit he could reflect upon the .

Victorian middle class to which he did not always ally himself. At other times, he could put the mask aside in order to intelligently comment on the present conditions in th3 arts with the ultimate goal of encouraging popular support for each media, while amusing and entertaining Dickens’ vast reading public. The recognition of intrinsic qualities as well as documentary value reflected from these short-articles adds to their potential value. When Dickens discovered the versatility of his newly acquired young friend, he requested

Collins to join in the publication efforts; soon afterwards Collins became the most dependable and valuable member of the staff. Finally there was to be a writer who could be depended upon to answer Dickens’ terse and imperative postscripts of "Brighten it, brighten it, brighten itj»102 (addressed to Wills concerning the tone of Household Words).

The Lighter Forms: The Personal Informal Essay and The Character Sketch: Urbane Humor, the Middle-Class Point-of-View, and Farce

Perhaps the most efficient way to gain insight into the 45

mechanics of the lighter articles would be to eavesdrop on Mr. Collins

as he looks at a selected group of these pieces in retrospect. The

following excerpt is taken from the preface to My Miscellanies (1863)

in which he lists several qualities that anchor these articles to an

earlier literary form and tradition. At the same time he attempts

to describe his theory of humor which is quite distinctive in its

own right when examined more closely and compared to Dickens’ technique

of mimicry and caricature.

My object in writing most of these papers—especially those collected under the general heads of "Sketches of Character" and "Social Grievances was to present what I had observed and what I had thought, in the lightest and least pretentious form; to address the' public (if I could) with something of the ease of letter writing, and something of the familiarity of friendly talk. The literary Pulpit appeared to me at that time—as it appears to me still— to be rather overcrowded with the Preachers of Lay Sermons .... More freshness and novelty of appeal to the much lectured and much enduring reader seemed to lie in views which might put us on easier terms with ourselves and others; and which might encourage us to laugh good-humoredly over some of the lighter eccentricities of character, and some of the more palpable absurdities of custom—without any unfair perversion of truth, or any needless descent to the lower regions of vulgarity and caricature.

In this excerpt Collins describes the easy-going, conversational tone through which these essays are presented and thereby establishes a link In his lighter journal pieces to the eighteenth century periodical tradition, grounded in periodicals such as the Tatler, Spectator, and

Goldsmith’s Bee, the journals that partially influenced Dickens in the creation of Household Words. The. periodical essays of these journals contained description, narration, and informal discussion, and treated trivial socially oriented material in a whimsical manner. Collins 46

established a similar approach in his "good-natured" treatment of

"lighter eccentricities of character" and "absurdities of custom."

This also separates him from the formal essay tradition belonging to such notable contemporaries as Arnold, Newman, and Ruskin, Like

Collins’ lighter articles, the eighteenth century periodical essays were written in the first person, were conversational in tone, and at times took the reader into the writer’s confidence in a witty, humorous manner. Some autobiographic elements were introduced or opinions on various subjects were expressed, but not in the same self-revealing manner that belongs to the separate tradition of the familiar essayist which originated in the seventeenth century and had a sudden burst of growth in the Romantic essayist of the early nineteenth century. The periodical essayist did not show the innermost workings of his heart but concealed himself behind 107 fictitious figures such as Isaac Bickerstaff or the Spectator.

In a similar manner, Wilkie includes autobiographic details but never allows his emotions and feelings to be completely exposed to the reader. Instead, he either creates a persona to keep a dignified distance between his personal feelings and the reader or addresses the reader in a more formal manner incorporating a thesis that could be applied to humanity in general. .(See "Bold Words by a Bachelor" in the Collection.)

Like the Tatier, which was preoccupied with the varied interests \ 108 of city life including manners, pastimes, follies, and scandals,

Wilkie is predominately interested in London life reflected through 47

a middle-class cosmopolitan point-of-view. The cosmopolitan narrators

in Wilkie’s articles possess the same grace and ease so commonly

found in earlier periodical essays, only they become more humorous

as they indirectly reveal their personalities through associative

thought patterns, methods of reasoning, reactions to people and situations, and opinionated statements. Of course, scandal was the type of "vulgarity" that Wilkie (and his narrators) avoided, partially through Dickens’ insistence that Household Words retain a moral, family image. The rake and the prostitute so commonly written about ✓ in a risque manner in the Tatler were hardly welcome to join the congenial circle around the hearth in Household Words. Even more interesting is the fact that Wilkie associated "caricature" with

"vulgarity" in that this technique of producing humor could be pushed to an undesirable extreme resulting in a distasteful distortion of what was originally intended to be a whimsical view of life. He did not exclude this technique from his writing; however, he did exert a control on the amount and degree of its use.

We have already seen Robinson assert that Collins was trying to copy Dickens’ journalistic style which would include the farce- caricature used in Dickens' humor. This statement appears to be superficial and inaccurate if much attention is given to Collins’ actual use of caricature and farce.

The essence of comic narration depends upon the selection of the unusual and the exaggeration of the normal. Caricature may be defined as exaggeration of appearance, farce as exaggeration of V 48 behavior« Exaggeration may be achieved by the selection of the unusual and the omission of the ordinary, or it may depend on the deliberate heightening of the normal and the real. Dickens had an unerring sense of exposing eccentricity, but basically his comedy depended upon his attention to qualities of feature, dress, and behavior which are ridiculous because they are exhibited in the extreme, Dickens' comic process is described by Earle Davis:

He begins by describing a character, giving him ridiculous traits, and heightening whatever qualities of dress, feature, or behavior will amuse the reader. He records the typical talk of this person, accentuating some mannerism of speech, and he puts him in contact with other similarly caricatured individuals. He then proceeds to enmesh his characters in embarassing fsicj and uproarious situations. Description, talk, and action are intentionally overdrawn, and the trick is to provide contrast by seizing upon different kinds of extraordinary but varied people, conversation, and action. 7

Since Dickens usually wrote from an omniscient point of view, he could inject as much exaggeration as he desired.

Collins' use of humor is centered on and dependent upon his persona—the educated, cosmopolitan middle-class poimt-of-view.

Unlike Dickens’ omniscience, Collins limits the amount and degree of farce and caricature in order to keep it consistent with the personality of the persona. Therefore, farce and caricature are subdued, giving a much more subtle shade of humor. Wilkie’s persona will assign caricaturistic name-tags to many of the characters he describes, but he will not deliberately emphasize ridiculous eccentricities just to get a belly laugh. Instead, the persona will emphasize traits in the character which grate against his own personality—thereby uncovering his prejudices and eccentricities. 49

The persona reflects the humor within himself as well as others while

consistently retaining a controlled sense of middle-class Victorian

propriety in his whimsical commentary. In the same manner farce is

controlled by the boundaries of the drawing room where humor originates

again from the annoyed persona being forced to "carry on" gracefully

in an awkward, uncomfortable situation. Wilkie was attempting to show that humor could be found in the manners and behavior patterns

of middle-class everyday life; one did not have to be the cheerful, benevolent head of a club of eccentrics as found in Dickens’ Mr.

Pickwick in order to be amusing.

Usually Wilkie’s lighter articles had no ulterior purpose other than to entertain, because this was his primary function as a writer for Household Words. Yet there are many articles that contain, under their whimsical and unassuming surface, fascinating, little-known information and significant social commentary that sought to remedy some minor abuse or to advocate some cause. For example, "Sure to be Healthy, Wealthy, and Wise" (All the Year Round,

I, April 30, 1859) exposes amusingly the kind of advertisement in cheaper popular magazines of the day that attempted to cheat the reader out of a few shillings by offering a complete psychological analysis of character from handwriting, or by guaranteeing a large weekly profit on the sale of certain products, or by offering to teach a "sure" method of finding, the ideal husband or wife—in a word, the kind of advertisements still found in pulp magazines. Other articles gave rise to the expression of social sympathies and 30

antipathies in his age. One such moment was seen in the sympathetic

reflection on the miserable lot of the roaid-of-all-work in the

predominantly informal and cheerful article "Laid Up in Two Lodgings."

Behind the fascade of pleasant humor in many of these essays found in

Household Words and All the Year Round there is evident serious

purpose, a desire to promote action and to bring about changes. Still

it would be a mistake to classify Collins as a serious social critic.

On the other hand, an even greater error exists in present criticism

(including the critical biographies) in assuming these articles to

be trivial and unimportant, possessing no literary or historical merit.

(Hopefully this collection and commentary will fill the vacuum created

by stereotyped and superficial study.)

The first non-fiction article that Wilkie wrote for Household

Words appeared December 22, 1855• "The Cruise of the Tomtit" centered

around the voyage that Wilkie took with a personal friend, Edward

Pigott, in September of that same year in a thirty-six foot, thirteen- ton cutter.HO Lightly disguised as Mr. Jollins, Collins narrates

the events of the trip with Mr. Migott (Pigott ) and their crew of

three sailors (and brothers): Sam, Dick, and Bob Dobbs. Sailing

around Cornwall, they hajd as their destination the Scilly Islands.

This was the first travel journal that Wilkie contributed to Household Words although he had earlier experimented in this form.m The brief

travel sketch keeps a brisk pace by alternating such potentially hazardous episodes as foul weather or overshooting the islands with the free-and-easy life at sea, "We are a happy, dawdling undisciplined 51 slovenly lot," Jollins said, "We have no principles, no respect- 112 ability, no business, no stake in country . . , The spirit of "getting away from it all" is transferred almost by seme strange osmotic process, and for a time the reader can sense the microcosm that Wilkie created.

Even though "The Cruise of the Tomtit" is pervaded by this easy-going sense of freedom, there are certain isolated glimpses of Collins’ tendency toward an informal essay thesis in which a personal opinion is merely stated for its own sake:

Yes, to every man who can be certain of his stomach, this is the true secret for thoroughly enjoying all the attractions of moving from place to place. Here is no hurrying to accomodate yourself to other people, no scrambling for places, no wearisome watchfulness over luggage .... The ships we meet, the trimming of our sails, the varying of the weather afford us constant occupation for eye and ear. Sick, indeed, must that libellous traveler have been who first called the sea monotonous.11-7

Being short legged and immune to sea-sickness, Wilkie must have felt at ease in his element.

The most significant change that took place in Collins' writing this travel journal was the inclusion of potentially humorous episodes.

The essence of sustained comic narration depends upon the selection of the unusual and the exaggeration of the normal. He allowed his humor to rise briefly and naturally out of everyday situations and objects which surrounded him at a particular moment with a minimum amount of realistic exaggeration. The hammock episode illustrates

Wilkie’s ability to describe a situation filled with potential humor which allows the reader’s imagination to fill in as little or as much exaggeration as he desires. 52

After the arrangement of goods and chattels came dinner (the curry warmed me up with a second course of fried onions), then the slinging of our hammocks by the neat hands of the Brothers Dobbs, and then the practice of how to get into the hammocks, by Messrs. Migott and Jollins, No landsman who has not tried the experiment can form the faintest notion of the luxury of the sailor’s swinging bed, or of the extraordinary difficulty of getting into it for the first time. The preliminary action is to stand with your back against the middle of the hammock, and to hold by the edge of the canvas on either side. You then duck your head down, throw your heels up, turn round on your back, and let go with your hands, all at the same moment. If you succeed in doing this, you are in the most luxurious bed that the ingenuity of man has ever invente^j^ If you fail, you measure your length on the floor.

In a similar whimsical manner, Mr. Jollins becomes the source of humor through his growing irritation with his inability to sleep in the tiny cabin amidst the snoring chorus of four old sea dogs.

Out went the lights; and off went my friends and the Brothers Dobbs into the most intolerable concert of snoring that is possible to imagine. I lay awake listening, and studying the character of the snore in each of the four sleeping individuals. The snore of Mr. Migott I found to be superior to the point of amiability, softness, and regularity—it was the kind of oily, long sustained purr, amusing, and not unmusical for the first five minutes. Next in point of merit to Mr. Migott came Bob Dobbs, His note was several octaves lower than my friend's, and his tone was a grunt—but I will do him justice; I will not scruple to admit that the sounds he produced were as regular as clock work. Very inferior was the performance of Sam Dobbs who, as owner of the boat, ought, I think, to have set a good example. If an idle carpenter planed a board very quickly at one time, very slowly at another, and if he moaned at intervals over his work, he would produce the best imitation of Sam Dobbs’s style of snoring that I can think of. Last and worst of all, came Dick Dobbs, who was afflicted with a cold, and whose snore consisted of a succession of loud chokes, gasps, and puffs, all contending together as it appeared to me, which should suffocate him soonest. There I lay, wide awake, suffering under the awful nose-chorus which I have attempted to describe, for nearly an hour. It was a dark night: there was no wind, and very little air. Horrible doubts about the sufficiency of our ventilation began to beset me. Reminiscences of early reading on the subject of the Black Hole of Calcutta came back vividly to my memory. 53

I thought of the twelve feet by eight, in which we were all huddled together—terror and indignation overpowered me— and I roared for a light, before the cabin of the Tomtit became too mephitic for flame of any kind to exist in it. Uprose they then my Merry Merry Men, bewildered and grumbling, to grope for the match-box. It was found, the lanthom was lit, the face of Mr. Migott appeared serenely over the side of his hammock, and sleepily inquired what was the matter? "Matter! The Black Hole of Calcutta is the matter. Poisonous, gaseous exhalation is the matter! Give me my bedding, my drop of brandy, and my pipe, and let me go on deck. Let me be a Chaldean shepherd, and contemplate the stars. Let me be the careful watch who patrols the deck, and guards the ship from foes and wreck. Let me be anything but the companion of men, who snore like the famous Furies in the old Greek play."11^

The way in which Mr. Jollins revealed himself to be a refined and

educated gentleman through his restrained and balanced poetic diction

and his use of literary allusion supplements the humor of his initial

entrapped situation. If Dickens were to have written this scene,

there probably would have been farcical exaggeration approaching

slap-stick comedy, perhaps with Jollins stumbling and groping over

the other occupants in trying to escape from the cramped and. stuffy

little cabin. Chaos would have resulted and would be out of character for such a "gentleman" as Mr. Jollins, The narrators of "Bold Words by a Bachelor" and "Give Us Room" in the collection belong to the same circle of polite gentlemen acquaintances created by Collins. But despite their "estimated" difference in the degree of exaggeration proper for the production of humor, Dickens responded in a very positive way to this little travelogue. He was surprised and delighted to find that Wilkie was at last showing a flair for humor. "He has written a charming paper," Dickens told Pigott, "nothing could be more 116 pleasant, gay, and unaffected," 54

The next work that Wilkie wrote for Household Words was a fictional autobiography in five installments entitled "A Rogue’s

Life: Written by Himself." Frank Softly narrates his fortunes in a way that is reminiscent of the picaresque adventures of a combination

Tom Jones and Jack Wilton. He calls himself a rogue, "being the spoilt 117 child of society, " ' and contends that while a rogue respected rank he still could see it as a thin glaze of rather foolish pretensions,

Frank sees himself as being born into a certain level of society in which his family struggled to maintain their status though always desperately needing money. For appearances sake, Frank was sent to a school which his father could ill afford and in which he felt out of place because he did not have any money. Thus the situation is established for the boy to take the initiative in making money in whatever ways possible. (His primary means to earn money comes from the interest he collects on loans made to other boys and by gambling.)

After being expelled from school and beaten in prison for drawing caricatures, he stumbles upon a den of counterfeiters run by Dr.

Dulcifer, an intellectual, as well as a resourceful and humorous master criminal. Shortly after joining the gang, young.Softly falls irrevocably in love with Laura Knapton, really the daughter of Dr.

Dulcifer, though this is unknown to the hero.

In this tale Collins demonstrated his ability to dabble in another literary tradition by briefly capturing the blithe spirit of the eighteenth century English picaresque hero. Wilkie accurately described the tone of this novelette as being "almost boisterous 55

gayety," and went on to explain that "it was written at a very happy

time in his life—while he was studying in Paris with Dickens as his

neighbor. Apparently his "neighbor" liked Frank Softly’s

narrative because in a letter written to Wills on February 17, I856,

Dickens wanted to include this serial as an opening article for

Household Words—an honor second only to the publication of a full length novel.H9 During the next six months, April through September,

I856, negotiations were conducted through Wills to acquire Collins as a regular staff writer for the journal.

That following April, Dickens wrote to Wills concerning Wilkie’s future in relation to the journal.

I think in such a case as of Collins, the right thing is to give/ 50 jfor "A Rogue's Life"?, I think it right, abstractly, in the case of a careful and good writer on whom we can depend for Xmas. Nos. and the like. But further, I know of offers for stories going about—to Collins himself for instance—which makes it additionally desirable that we should not shave close in such a case. I therefore tell him that you have paid£50»^0

Dickens announced his decision abruptly in the first paragraph of his letter of September 16, I856, to add Collins to the staff of

Household Words and then devoted three more paragraphs to an outline of the main reasons prompting his desicion. He said to Wills:

I have been thinking a good deal about Collins, and it strikes me that the best we can do for H.W. is to add him on to Morley, and offer him Five Guineas a week. He is very suggestive, and exceedingly quick to take my notions. Being industrious and reliable besides, I don’t think we shall be at an additional expense of £20 in the year by the transaction. 1

In this letter Dickens continued to outline what he felt was his editorial duty to this contributor. He confessed that Collins should have some compensation for not "getting his name before the public," 56

said that he should have "some little compensation for his name’s

not being constantly announced," and thought that it "might be

afforded by a certain engagement." Wills was instructed to make the

proposal clear to Collins, and to let him understand that he should

have permission to collect his writings. Dickens thought in the long

run the association would do Collins a great deal of good. Finally,

Dickens wished Wills to put before Collins the idea that regular

association with Household Words and with himself might be pleasant

and profitable for all concerned.

Wilkie apparently demurred over two points. First, he was

ambitious to try his hand at a long serial for Household Words, whereas

Dickens at the same time valued him mainly as a writer of "detached papers" and "short stories in four parts,"122

Dickens gave a compromise answer that paved the way to a modification

of his editorial policies in later years. He cautioned Wills not to "conclude" anything unfavorable with Collins, without "previous

reference of the subject" to himself. As to Wilkie’s objection to anonymity, Dickens said he thought him wrong in his position.

But as far as a long story is concerned, I see not the least objection to our advertising at once, before it begins, that it is by him. I do see objection to departing from our custom of not putting names to the papers in H.W. itself; but to our advertising the authorship of a long story, as a Rider to all our advertisements, I see none whatever.

Dickens doubted the value of a long story from Collins' pen, but concluded "I am quite willing to try the experiment." He then specified that the "story should not, however, go beyond six months, 124 and the engagement should be for the twelve," 57

Mr. R.C. Lehmann, who has had access to the Office Book of

Household Words, observes that some arrangements of the kind outlined

above must have been made between Wilkie and Dickens; for after

October 4, 1856, no entry of payment was made in that book opposite

Collins* contributions. That signified, according to Lehmann, that

Collins was paid a regular salary as a member of Household Words after 125 that date. At any rate, Dickens complied with the proposition laid

down in the letter mentioned above so far as to advertise Collins' The

Dead Secret under the author's name and publish it in Household Words

from January 3 to June 13, 1857• From then on, Dickens made a

practice of publishing the name of Collins and other established writers when he advertised their stories in preparation for publication

in Household Words.

During this period of negotiations, Wilkie continued to experiment with the light "detached papers" as Dickens preferred to call them. One of the most significant papers written during this interim was a personal narrative of his illness in Paris and London called "Laid Up in Two Lodgings." Essentially Wilkie was still relying heavily upon a loosely organized, rambling autobiographic framework; he made no attempt to disguise himself as the ill and irritable narrator of the account. Like the character of Mr. Jollins, the source of humor in this character is contained in the self-exposed crotcheti- ness of a hyper-sensitive ailing bachelor in constant need of his orderly shelf of pills and tonics. Collins seems to be implying a basic truth about human nature—that an individual’s physical health 58 has a direct reciprocal influence on his mental attitudes and consequently are reflected through various thought associations.

The following quotation shows the inind of such an ailing individual in action,

• » • the only objects which I now notice attentively from my window, are, oddly enough, chiefly those which I should have missed altogether, or looked at with indifference, if I had occupied my bachelor apartment in the enviable character of a healthy man. For example, out of the various vehicles which pass me by dozens in the morning, and by hundreds in the afternoon, only two succeed in making anything like a lasting impression on my mind, I have only vague ideas of dust, dashing, and magnificence in connection with the rapid carriages , , . but I have, on the other hand, a very distinct remembrance of one sober brown omnibus, belonging to a Maison de Santez [sanitary asylumj, and of a queer little truck which carries baths and hot water to private houses, from a bathing establishment near me. The omnibus, as it passes my window at a solemn jog-trot, is full of patients getting their airing. I can see them dimly, and I fall into curious fancies about their various cases, and wonder what proportion of the afflicted passengers are near the time of emancipation from their sanitary prison on wheels. As for the little truck, with its empty zinc bath and barrel of warm water, I am probably wrong in sympathetically associating it as frequently as I do with cases of illness. It is doubtless often sent for by healthy people, too luxurious in their habits to walk abroad for a bath. But there must be a proportion of cases of illness to which the truck ministers ; and when I see it going faster than usual, I assume that it must be wanted by some person in a fit; grow suddenly agitated by the idea, and watch the empty bath and the hot-water barrel with breathless interest, until they rumble away together out of sight. ^-27 The details of this street scene are given a quaint coloring through the imagination of an isolated invalid who has amused himself during his period of recuperation by observing the world from his limited viewpoint. This same sympathetic preoccupation is extended into the interpretation of individuals who appeared under Wilkie’s window in Paris 59

So, again, with regard to the men and women who pass my window by thousands every day; my view of them is just as curiously circumscribed as my view of the vehicles , , » , The woman is a nursemaid, neither young nor pretty, very clean and neat in her dress, with an awful bloodless paleness in her face, and a hopeless consumptive languor in her movements. She has only one child to take care of-—a robust little girl of cruelly active habits. There is a stone bench opposite my window; and on this the wan and weakly nursemaid often sits, not bumping down on it with the heavy thump of honest exhaustion, but sinking on it listlessly, as if in changing from walking to sitting she were only passing from one form of weariness to another. The robust child remains mercifully near the feeble guardian for a few minutes, then becomes, on a sudden, pitilessly active again, laughs and dances from a distance, when the nurse makes weary signs to her, and runs away altogether, when she is faintly entreated to be quiet for a few minutes longer. The nurse looks after her in despair for a moment, draws her neat black shawl, with a shiver, over her sharp shoulders, rises resignedly, and disappears from my eyes in pursuit of the pitiless child. I see this mournful little drama acted many times over, always in the same way, and wonder sadly how long the wan nursemaid will hold out. Not being a family man, and having nervously-acute sympathies for sickness and suffering just now, it would afford me genuine satisfaction to see the oppressed nurse beat the tyrannical child; but she seems fond of the little despot; and, besides, she is so weak that if it came to blows, I am afraid, grown woman as she is, that she might get the worst of it. 8

Again the subtle combination of humorous irritation and sympathetic reflection produces a unique tone in Wilkie’s personal, informal essay.

When Wilkie was annoyed by his London landlady, the observations became decidedly more caustic. Mrs. Glutch is the first of a long line of women who came under the restrained, farcical jabs from Wilkie’s pen.

Think of a sick fly waited on by a healthy blue-bottle, and you will have a fair idea of the relative proportions and positions of myself and Mrs. Glutch. I have hardly been settled an hour in my second-floor front room before the conviction is forced on my mind that 60

Mrs, Glutch is resolved to make a conquest of me—of the maternal, or platonic kind, let me hasten to add, so as to stop the mouth of scandal before it is well opened, I find that she presents herself before me in the character of a woman suffused in a gentle melancholy, proceeding from perpetual sympathy for my suffering condition. It is part of my character, as a sick man, that I know by instinct when people really pity me, just as children and dogs know when people really like them; and I have, consequently, not been five minutes in Mrs, Glutch’s society, before I know that her sympathy for me is entirely of that sort of which a large assortment is always on hand, and all orders for which, when Self-Interest is the customer, can be invariably executed with promptitude and despatch fsicj. I take no pains to conceal from Mrs. Glutch that I have founa her out; but she is too innocent to understand me, and goes on sympathising in the very face of detection. She becomes, in spite of her knobbed face, knotty arms, and great stature and strength, languidly sentimental in manner, the moment she enters my room. Language runs out of her in a perpetual flow, and politeness encircles her as with a halo that can never be dimmed, "I have been so anxious about you!" is her first morning’s salutation to me. The words are preceded by a faint cough, and followed by an expressively weary sigh, as if she had passed a sleepless night on my account. The next morning she appears with a bunch of wall-flowers in her mighty fist, and with another faint prefatory cough, "I beg pardon, sir; but I have brought you a few flowers. I think they relieve the mind." The expressively weary sigh follows again, as if it would suggest this time that she has toiled into the country to gather me the flowers at early dawn. I do not find, strange as it may seem, that they relieve my mind at all; but of course I say, "Thank you."—"Thank you, sir," rejoins Mrs. Glutch— for it is part of this woman's system of oppressive politeness always to thank me for thanking her. She invariably contrives to have the last word, no matter in what circumstances the courteous contention, which is the main characteristic of our daily intercourse, may take its rise.129

Mrs. Glutch continues to predominate the last half of Wilkie’s narrative because she is constantly intruding upon his privacy. "Laid

Up in Two Lodgings" does not have a controlling idea, which perhaps prohibits it from being classified as an informal essay; it did, however, provide valuable experience in keeping balance and control while crossing over the potentially slippery rocks of exaggeration. 61

Collins finally achieved the limited focus usually necessary for

the informal essay, however, when he decided to portray an old bachelor, who has a "benevolent mania" for classifying the single daughters of his friends. The three sub-types include the "extremely sentimental," the "disputatious," and the "simple hearted and prattled" 130 spinsters. J From this point on Wilkie became more proficient in focusing and organizing his essays around a whimsical or trivial observation taken from genteel mid-Victorian society.

In his paper "Talk Stoppers" Wilkie started by asking this question in a half-satiric, half-serious manner: "Where are the illustrious men and women gifted with the capacity for perpetual outpouring from the tongue, who used to keep enraptured audiences 131 deluged in a flow of eloquent monologue for hours together?" J He led the discussion to the conclusion that eloquent talkers are not appreciated by today’s society because there are such individuals known as "talk-stoppers." "Their business in life seems to be the obstructing, confusing, and interrupting of all conversation-must be the peculiar and portentous growth of our own degenerate era." A gallery of these illustrious personages includes: Colonel Hopkirk, who confuses conversation; Mr. Oily, the incessant talker; Mrs.

Marblemug, the. interruptor of Mr. Oily; Mr. Endless, who reads aloud from "Evenings with Endless by a Constant Listener,"^33 and ^r. Spoke

Wheeler who ambushes conversations. A similar approach is used to reveal another group of women whose mannerisms are just as whimsical but none the less believable and amusing. This time Wilkie hid 62

behind the skirts of an intelligent middle-class woman who contends

that male authors are too gentle with female character traits, and

proclaims the existence of a variety of women known as the female bore.

Again the gallery is filled with such notables as Mrs, Sticker, who

"goes" the "talk-stoppers" one better. She not only interrupts

conversation but also forgets the comment or crucial word that she

so desperately needed to insert once the conversation has been stopped.

Mrs. Tinklepaw represents the married counterpart of the female bore whose "schemes of petty torment''^^ nearly alienated a loving bride

from her gentle groom at a dinner party given in their honor. These brief, humorous cameos are the forerunners of the more sustained comic narratives involving Mrs. Badgery and the self-righteous spinster from "Pray Employ Major Nambyl" (included in the collection).

It would be a mistake, however, to conclude that Wilkie was merely a social gadfly commenting on.the most trivial of subjects.

Most of his informative essays retain this appearance because of the easy-going narrator. But this narrator is also a knowledgeable conversationalist, and the quantity of information he disseminates goes unnoticed because the reader is unaware that a learning process is taking place. One such informative article, "The Unknown Public," is particularly striking because Wilkie demonstrated an awareness of the masses of new reading public who were developing this skill and reading tastes during the very period in which he wrote.

Early in "The Unknown Public" Wilkie established that this public read penny-novel-journals and clarified that the awkward 63

compound word did not include the penny newspapers. Estimating

circulation of one million for the five penny-novel-journals already

being published weekly, he multiplied this by three readers per

magazine and arrived at the answer that the reading public consisted

of three million people, "which lies right under the pale of literary civilization."136 This public reads more for amusement than for

information and "looks to quantity rather than quality in spending its

penny a week on literature." According to Wilkie, a column best

described as "Answers to Correspondents" common to all of these journals

"was the most interesting page in the penny journals" and revealed the

interests of the public.

A reader of a penny-novel-journal who wants a recipe for gingerbread. A reader who complains of fullness in his throat. Several readers who want cures for grey hair, for warts, for sores on the head, for nervousness, and for worms. Two readers who have trifled with Woman's Affections, and want to know if a Woman can sue for breach of promise of marriage. A reader who wants to know what the sacred Initials I.H.S. mean and how to get rid of small-pox marks.-5'

The list is endless even in Wilkie’s article!

The most prominent feature in all of these journals is the

serial story "which is placed in every case as the first article, and

which is illustrated by the only wood-engraving that appears expressly cut for this purpose.nl38 These serials are succinctly summarized by

Collins as a "combination of fierce melodrama and meek domestic

sentiment • • . with moral English reflections of the sort that occur on the top lines of children’s copy books."^39 The only positive quality that Collins sees in their favor is the absence of wickedness. 64

Collins reinforced objectivity in his attitude by making this

enlightened comment toward the end of his article:

The Unknown Public is, in a literary sense hardly beginning, as yet, to learn to read. The members of it are evidently, in the mass, from no fault of theirs, still ignorant of almost everything which is generally known and understood among readers whom circumstances have placed, socially and intellectually, in the rank above them .... Meanwhile, it is hardly too much to say that the future of English fiction may rest with this Unknown Public, which is now waiting to be taught the difference between a good book and a bad. It is probably a question of time only. The largest audience for periodical literature, in this age of periodicals, must obey the universal law of progress, and must, sooner or later, learn to discriminate. When that period comes, the readers who rank by millions will be the readers who give the widest reputations, who return the richest rewards, and who will therefore, command the service of the best writers of their time.14,0

Apparently Dickens gave only a cursory reading to this article because he merely mentioned it as being "very funny. Just what we l/il want." The paper is amusing, but more important it demonstrated

Wilkie’s awareness of a reading public that in part could be gradually drawn into the circles of Household Words and All the Year Round,

thereby increasing circulation and profit. Dickens also sensed the presence of this public because a significant amount of material

incorporated into the format of his journals would have attracted them. Although he did not include a column such as "Answers to

Correspondents," Dickens managed to insert the-type of general informative article that would answer many of the questions posed by the "unknown public." For example, one of the articles immediately following "The Unknown Public," an informative essay entitled "Our

Vegetable Friends," went into exhaustive detail about the role of 65

plants in supplying clothing material, woods, dyes, oils, and

medicines. The structure of this type of article would be more difficult to read consequently presenting a greater challenge to the

"unknown reader;" at the same time, the subjects would motivate him to

read and thereby improve his developing skill.

From their very conception both journals contained at least one weekly fictional serial, many of them belonging to Mr. Wilkie

Collins, Again only a conjecture can be made, but part of the marked increase in circulation must be attributed to the unknown public when such novels as The Woman in White and The Moonstone were being serialized in All the Year Round. During the time of their publication as serials, Amy Cruse notes that long lines of eager people from all walks of life would be waiting outside the Wellington Street entrance to Household Words office; even the delivery boys would "duck" into the entry ways and take the newly released issue and avariciously read the latest installment.^^

Most of the fiction which appeared in Dickens’ two journals possessed a much higher degree of literary quality than that found in the penny-novel-journals described by Collins. Literary quality was a necessity in order to.retain the first and most important patrons of the journals—the "known reading public," whose majority was firmly planted in the comfortably established Victorian middle-class.

It was emphasized earlier that Dickens was always very careful not to include any material which might be offensive to this "known public. "^3 Even Wilkie did not altogether escape the vigilance of 66

the Editor-in-Chief when an article like "Highly Proper!" went to

press, Dickens knew that Wilkie was inclined to be somewhat sarcastic

toward those segments of the middle-class that could exert political

or social influence through their money. This symptom was clearly

recognizable in his first novel, Basil (which Dickens read and reviewed),1^ Collins satirized the vulgar, socially ambitious

tradesman which the Victorian age produced in such numbers in the

character of Mr. Sherwin, a type of nouveau riche businessman, who, having advanced his material interest, becomes both ridiculously and

seriously anxious to cut an impressive social figure. In his villa, built in one of the very newest suburbs:

Everything was oppressively new. The brilliantly-varnished’ door cracked with a report like a pistol when it was opened; the paper on the walls, with its gaudy pattern of birds, trellis- work, and flowers in gold, red, and green on a white ground, looked hardly dry yet; the shoxiy window-curtains of white and sky-blue, and the still showier carpet of red and yellow, seemed as if they had come out of the shop yesterday; the round rosewood table was in a painfully high state of polish; the morocco-brown framed picture that lay on it, looked as if it had never' been moved or opened since it had been bought; not one leaf even of the music on the piano was dogs-eared or worn. Never was a richly-furnished room more thoroughly comfortless than this— the eye ached at looking round it.1**^

Artificiality and sterility are unmistakable in the atmosphere of this room. Later, Sherwin’s money maneuvered his daughter into a school

... where it was a rule to take in nothing lower than the daughter of a professional man--they only waived the rule in my case—the most genteel school in all London! A drawing­ room-deportment once every week—the girls taught how to enter a room and leave a room with dignity and ease—a model carriage door and steps, in the back drawing-room, to practise the girls (with footman of the establishment in attendance) in getting 67

into a carriage and getting out again, in a lady-like, graceful mannerl

No doubt the action taken by this "genteel school" was remembered by

Wilkie when a similar private school rejected the son of a close friend on the grounds that the father's occupation, that of an actor and theatre manager, might "reflect unfavorably upon the character of this genteel establishment."^?

Collins begins the essay by repeating a rather informal word, praising the English people as a nation of "grumblers," who were constantly improving their society. Though still praising the English, the second paragraph gradually takes on a dignity in tone that is similar to the "high seriousness" found in Arnold’s essays.

We have, in many important respects, advanced resolutely, industriously, and honourably from a state of past darkness to a state of present light. No thoughtful man can look back, even through no longer period than the last fifty years, without thankfully acknowledging that the English nation has been, up to this moment, both politically and socially, a notable gainer. ^8

After this formal statement of praise, Collins quickly turns his discourse in the opposite direction—toward serious indignation.

But, while we freely assert our right to take some credit to ourselves for the progress that we have indisputably made, we must by no means be disposed to deny that many-far too many—more victories still remain to be won over the barbarous forces led by three rampant commanders, General Ignorance, General Prejudice, and General Folly. Probably, the most dangerous national fault, of the moral sort, which we can now commit is to look too complacently at what we have done, and thereby to fall into the error of forgetting too readily all that we still have to do. Strong as it has become, the new life of the nation, in this age, is still beset by base infirmities and lamentable weaknesses which its constitutional vigour has yet to throw off.-^9 68

Collins directly proceeds to the discrimination enacted against the

boy and his father, Mr. Wigan, manager of the Olympic Theatre, Now

the tone moves from righteous indignation to one of vitriolic bitterness as he levels his attack directly at schoolmasters of private

institutions through a rhetorical question.

What amount of moral and intellectual progress have some of our well connected countrymen made, since the bad bye-gone time when actors were refused the rites of Christian burial? Here is the wicked spirit of that wicked old social prejudice alive still among some of us, in the latter half of the nineteenth. There is something portentous in the bare discovery that such people exist. How far behind the age they live in are they in other matters? In what rocky fastness do they lie hid? Is the ducking of witches one of their favourite amusements? Would they fly with shrieks if they saw a steam-engine? Here are the heathen about us, somewhere or other in this country, and so no Society for the Propagation of the Gospel at Home to find them out.

Finally Collins attempts to regain emotional control in his essay, temporarily lost in the preceding paragraph, when he focuses on the discrimination against the boy,

A prejudice against the stage merely is a prejudice which we can pity and pass by. But a prejudice against the stage which asserts its ignorant distrust of actors by cruelly fastening itself on innocent children by meanly grudging them of their education, and by pitilessly endeavouring to deprive them of a place in society at the very outset of life, is a prejudice for which vie have no mercy. Bigots of this class are past reproof and past argument. It would indeed be monstrous to suppose that the question wanted any arguing at all.1^1

At first Dickens was worried about the vitriolic tone of this article as evidenced in his correspondence to Wills on September 24,

1858,

I . . . wish you to look well to Wilkie’s article about the Wigan schoolmaster, and not to leave anything in it that 69

may be sweeping, and necessarily offensive to the middle class. He has a tendency to overdo that—and such a subject gives him fresh temptation.

In his final comment about this article, Dickens established one of

his policies on editorial honesty. Despite the serious nature of this

communication the article remained intact. Perhaps Dickens’ and Wills’

sympathies were aroused since the injustice had been committed against

someone in the theatre, held in high esteem, particularly by Dickens.

Even though this injustice may appear to be a tempest in a tea pot,

the article itself demonstrated Collins’ ability to work syntax and

diction into a beautifully eloquent formal essay in spite of its

waspish overtones. When Wilkie or his personas can lose some of their bitterness and adopt a more objective attitude, this type of informal

essay carries genuine, meaningful commentary about an existing

condition.

Hopefully the foregoing discussion has added a new dimension

to Wilkie Collins as a popular writer of the light informal essay.

The collection which follows has been selected to show the variety of

form, subject matter, tone, and techniques (particularly point-of- view) used by Collins that we have commented on in this Introduction.

One short story has been included for the enjoyment of the reader who wants to review again Wilkie’s craft in skillfully constructing a tale of suspense. The remainder of the articles, however, are taken from his non-fictional essays and sketches in order to bring to light a new and delightful dimension to the art of a man who has been remembered only for his journeys into the dark and the macabre. His 70 explorations into the light of everyday life can be just as entertain­ ing and in many respects convey a more profound understanding of human nature, particularly in the discovery of the timelessness of the blithe spirit of comedy, 7/

PART II: THE COLLECTION

Short Fiction (Headnote Commentary)

Nuell Pharr Davis in his critical biography of Collins has established that an unsuccessful artist friend told Collins of the low den in Paris in which the proprietor kept a specially contrived bed to smother his victims.^33 fLike most of the other short stories

"A Terribly Strange Bed" relies upon the first person style of narration by which Collins attempts to give his reader a sense of immediacy and reality. The first person narration is also related to the structure of the tale in that a story within a story is used.

The peripheral story and narrator—that of a painter trying to get the main narrator, Faulkner, to pose in a natural manner for a portrait—functions as a frame for the latter’s journey into the 154 macabre.

In describing his acute senses Faulkner reminds us of similar hypersensitive narrators found in Poe’s tales. For example, such comments as "So, to excite myself out of the depression of spirits which was fast stealing over, I unfortunately went to the table, and began to play" or "Every nerve in my body trembled-—every one of my senses seemed to be preternaturally sharpened" are made to elicit fear and suspense in the reader. But Faulkner is not the mentally deranged narrator typical of Poe’s tales. A young Englishman in

Paris, he is looking for excitement and reality—"a little genuine, 72

blackguard, poverty stricken gaming with no false gaming or ginger­

bread thrown over it all." Wilkie’s quest for the "poetry of every­ day life" and his admiration for Balzac^55 are inherent in Faulkner’s description of the miserable rascals that populated the gambling den.

Through Faulkner, Collins wanted to impart a new sensation to his

readers by a combination of the startling and the familiar, to lay before them a fantastic and weird situation but fashioned out of the

commonplace. ********** 73 "A Terribly Strange Bed" Household Words, V (April 24, l8j£), 129-37.

The most difficult likeness I ever had to take, not even

excepting my first attempt in the art of Portrait-painting, was a

likeness of a gentleman named Faulkner. As far as drawing and

colouring went, I had no particular fault to find with my picture;

it was the expression of the sitter which I had failed in rendering— a failure quite as much his fault as mine. Mr. Faulkner, like many

other persons by whom I have been employed, took it into his head

that he must assume an expression, because he was sitting for his likeness; and, in consequence, contrived to look as unlike himself as possible, while I was painting him. I had tried to divert his attention from his own face, by talking with him on all sorts of topics. We had both travelled a great deal, and felt interested alike in cany subjects connected with our wanderings over the same countries.

Occasionally, while we were discussing our travelling experiences, the unlucky set-look left his countenance, and I began to work to some purpose;‘but it was always disastrously sure to return again, before

I had made any great progress—or, in other words, just at the very time when I was most anxious that it should not re-appear. The obstacle thus thrown in the way of the satisfactory completion of my portrait, was the more to be deplored, because Mr. Faulkner’s natural expression was a very, remarkable one. I. am not an author, so I cannot describe it. I ultimately succeeded in painting it, however; and this was the way in which I achieved my success:— 7*

On the morning when my sitter was coming to me for the fourth

time, I was looking at his portrait in no very agreeable mood—looking

at it, in fact, with the disheartening conviction that the picture

would be a perfect failure, unless the expression in the face repre­

sented were thoroughly altered and improved from nature. The only

method of accomplishing this successfully, was to make Mr, Faulkner,

somehow, insensibly forget that he was sitting for his picture. What

topic could I lead him to talk on, which would entirely engross his

attention while I was at work on his likeness?—I was still puzzling

my brains to no purpose on this subject when Mr, Faulkner entered my

studio; and, shortly afterwards, an accidental circumstance gained

for me the very object which my own ingenuity had proved unequal to

compass.

While I was "setting” my palette, my sitter amused himself by

turning over some portfolios. He happened to select one for special

notice, which contained several sketches that I had made in the

streets of Paris. He turned over the first five views rapidly enough;

but when he came to the sixth, I saw his face flush directly; and

observed that he took the drawing out of the portfolio, carried it to

the window, and remained silently absorbed in the contemplation of it

for full five minutes. After that, he turned round to me; and asked very anxiously, if I had any objection to part with that sketch.

It was the least interesting drawing of the series—merely a view in one of the streets running by the backs of the houses in the

Palais Royal. Some four or five of these houses were comprised in 75

the view, which was of no particular use to me in any way; and which

was too valueless, as a work of Art, for me to think of selling it to

my kind patron, I begged his acceptance of it, at once. He thanked

me quite warmly; and then, seeing that I looked a little surprised

at the odd selection he had made from my sketches, laughingly asked

me if I could guess .why he had been so anxious to become possessed

of the view which I had given him?

"Probably"~-I answered—"there is some remarkable historical

association connected with that street at the back of the Palais

Royal, of which I am ignorant,"

"No"—said Mr. Faulkner—"at least, none that I know of. The

only association connected with the place in my mind., is a purely,

personal association. Look at this house in your drawing—the house with the water-pipe running down it from top to bottom. I once

passed a night there—a night I shall never forget to the day of my death, I have had some awkward travelling adventures in my time; but that adventure—1 Well, well! suppose we begin the sitting, I make but a bad return for your kindness in giving me the sketch, by thus wasting your time in mere talk,".

He had not long occupied the sitter’s chair (looking pale and thoughtful), when he returned—involuntarily, as it seemed—to the subject of the house in the back street. Without, I hope, showing any undue curiosity, I contrived to let him see that I felt a deep interest in everything he now said. After two or three preliminary hesitations, he at last, to my great joy, fairly started on the 76

narrative of his adventure. In the interest of his subject he soon

completely forgot that he was sitting for his portrait—the very

expression that I wanted, came over his face—my picture proceeded

towards completion, in the right direction, and to the best purpose.

At every fresh touch, I felt more and more certain that I was now

getting the better of my grand difficulty; and I enjoyed the addi­

tional gratification of having my work lightened by the recital of a true story, which possessed, in my estimation, all the excitement

of the most exciting romance.

This, as nearly as I can recollect, is, word for word, how Mr.

Faulkner told me the story:—

Shortly before the period when gambling-houses were suppressed by the French Government, I happened to be staying at Paris with an

English friend. Vie were both young men then, and lived, I am afraid, a very dissipated life, in the very dissipated city of our sojourn.

One night, we were idling about the neighbourhood of the Palais Royal, doubtful to what amusement we should next betake ourselves. My friend proposed a visit to Frascati’s; but his suggestion was not to my taste. I knew Frascati’s, as the French saying is, by heart; had lost and won plenty of five-franc pieces there, "merely for the fun of the thing," until it was "fun" no longer; and was thoroughly tired, in fact, of all the ghastly respectabilities of such a social anomaly as a respectable gambling-house, "For Heaven’s sake"—said I to my friend—"let us go somewhere where we can see a little genuine, 77

blackguard, poverty-stricken gaming, with no false gingerbread

glitter thrown over it at all. Let us get away from fashionable

Frascati’s, to a house where they don’t mind letting in a nan with

a ragged coat, or a roan with no coat, ragged, or otherwise."—“Very well," said my friend, "we needn’t go out of the Palais Royal to

find the sort of company you want. Here's the place, just before

us; as blackguard a place, by all report, as you could possibly wish

to see," In another minute we arrived at the door, and entered the house, the back of which you have drawn in your sketch.

When we got up-stairs, and had left our hats and sticks with the doorkeeper, we were admitted into the chief gambling-room, We did not find many people assembled there. But, few as the men were who looked up at us on our entrance, they were all types—miserable types—of their respective classes. We had come to see blackguards; but these men were something worse. There is a comic side, more or less appreciable, in all blackguardism—here, there was nothing but tragedy; mute, weird tragedy. The quiet in the room was horrible.

The thin, haggard, long-haired young man, whose sunken eyes fiercely watched the turning up of the cards, never spoke; the flabby, fat- faced, pimply player, who pricked his piece of paste-board persever- ingly, to register how often black won, and how often red—never spoke; the dirty, wrinkled old nan, with the vulture eyes, and the darned great coat, who had lost his last sous, and still looked on desperately, after he could play no longer—never spoke. Even the voice of the croupier sounded as if it were strangely dulled and 78

thickened in the atmosphere of the room, I had entered the place to

laugh; I felt that if I stood quietly looking on much longer, I should

be more likely to weep. So, to excite myself out of the depression

of spirits which was fast stealing over me, I unfortunately went to

the table, and began to play. Still more unfortunately as the event

will show, I won—won prodigiously; won incredibly; won at such a

rate that the regular players at the table crowded round me; and

staring at my stakes with hungry, superstitious eyes, whispered to

one another, that the English stranger was going to break the bank.

The game was Rouge et Noir. I had played at it in every city

in Europe, without, however, the care or the wish to study the Theory

of Chances—that philosopher’s stone of all gamblersl And a gambler,

in the strict sense of the word, I had never been, I was heart-whole

from the corroding passion for play. My gaming was a mere idle amuse­

ment, I never resorted to it by necessity, because I never knew what

it was to want money, I never practised it so incessantly as to lose

more than I could afford, or to gain more than I could coolly pocket

without being thrown off my balance by my. good luck. In short, I bad

hitherto frequented gambling-tables—just as I frequented ball-rooms

and opera-houses—because they amused me, and because I had nothing

better to do with my leisure hours.

But, on this occasion, it was very different—now, for the

first time in my life, I felt what the passion for play really was.

My success first bewildered, and then, in the most literal meaning

of the word, intoxicated me. Incredible as it may appear, it is 79

nevertheless true, that I only lost, when I attempted to estimate

chances, and played according to previous calculation, If I left

everything to luck, and staked without any care or consideration, I

was sure to win—to win in the face of very recognised probability

in favour of the bank. At first, some of the men present ventured

their money safely enough on my colour; but I speedily increased my

stakes to sums which they dared not risk. One after another they

left off playing, and breathlessly looked on at my game. Still,

time after time, I staked higher and higher; and still won. The

excitement in the room rose to fever pitch. The silence was inter­

rupted, by a deep, muttered chorus of oaths and exclamations in dif­

ferent languages, every time the gold was shovelled across to my side

of the table—even the imperturable croupier dashed his rake on the

floor in a (French) fury of astonishment at my success. But one man

present preserved his self-possession; and that man was my friend.

He came to my side, and whispering in English, begged me to leave the

place, satisfied with what I had already gained. I must do him the

justice to say, that he repeated his warnings and entreaties several

times; and only left me and went away, after I had rejected his advice

(I was to all intents and purposes gambling-drunk) in terms which rendered it impossible for him to address me again that night.

Shortly after he had gone, a hoarse voice behind me cried:—

"Permit me, my dear sir!--permit me to restore to their proper place two Napoleons which you have dropped. Wonderful luck, sirl—I pledge you my word of honour as an old soldier, in the course of my long 80

experience in this sort of thing, I never saw such luck as yours!-—

never! Go on, sir—Sacre mille bombesl Go on boldly, and break

the bank!"

I turned round and saw, nodding and smiling at me with

inveterate civility, a tall man, dressed in a frogged and braided

surtout. If I had been in my senses, I should have considered him,

personally, as being rather a suspicious specimen of an old soldier.

He had goggling bloodshot eyes, mangy raustachios, and a broken nose.

His voice betrayed a barrack-room intonation of the worst order, and

he had the dirtiest pair of hands I ever saw—even in France. These

little personal peculiarities exercised, however, no repelling

influence on me. In the mad excitement, the reckless triumph of that

moment, I was ready to "fraternise" with anybody who encouraged me

in my game. I accepted the old soldier's offered pinch of snuff;

clapped him on the back, and swore he was the honestest fellow in the

world; the most glorious relic of the Grand Army that I had ever met with. "Go on!" cried my military friend, snapping his fingers in

ecstasy,—"Go on, and winl Break the tank—Mille tonnerres! my gallant

English comrade, break the bank!"

And I did go on—went on at such a rate, that in another quarter of an hour the croupier called out: "Gentlemen! the bank has discon­ tinued for tonight," All the notes, and all the gold in that "bank," now lay in a heap under my hands; the whole floating capital of the gambling-house was waiting to pour into my pockets!

"Tie up the money in your pocket-handkerchief, my worthy sir," 81

said the old soldier, as I wildly plunged my hands into ray heap of

gold, "Tie it up, as we used to tie up a bit of dinner in the Grand

Army; your winnings are too heavy for any breeches pockets that ever

were sown, Therel that’s itl—shovel them in, notes and alll Crediel

what luck!—Stop! another Napoleon on the floor! Ah! sacre petit polisson

de Napoleonl have I found thee at last? Now then, sir-two tight

double knots each way with your honourable permission, and the money’s

safe. Feel itl feel it, fortunate sir! hard and round as a cannon

ball—Ah, bah! if they had only fired such cannon balls at us, at

Austerlitz—nom d’une pipel if they only had! And now, as an ancient

grenadier as an ex-brave of the French army, what remains for me to

do? I ask what? Simply this: to entreat my valued English friend to

drink a bottle of champagne with me, and toast the goddess Fortune

in foaming goblets before we part! "

Excellent ex-brave! Convivial ancient grenadier! Champagne

by all means! An English cheer for an old soldier! Hurrah! hurrah!

"Bravo! the Englishman; the amiable gracious Englishman, in whose veins circulates the vivacious blood of France! Another glass?

Ah. bah!—the bottle is empty! Never mind! Vive le vin! I, the old

soldier, order another bottle, and half-a-piound of bon-bons with it!"

No, no, ex-brave; never—ancient grenadierl Your bottle last time; my bottle this. Behold itl Toast away! The French Army!—the great Napoleon!—the present company! the croupier! the honest croupier’s wife and daughters—if he lias any! the Ladies generally!

Everybody in the world! 82

By the time the second bottle of champagne was emptied, I felt

as if I had been drinking liquid fire—my brain seemed all a-flame.

No excess in wine had ever had this effect on me before in my life.

Was it the result of a stimulant acting upon my system when I was in

a highly-excited state? Was my stomach in a particularly disordered

condition? Or was the champagne particularly strong?

"Ex-brave of the French Army1" cried I, in a mad state of

exhilaration. "I am on firel how are you? You have set me on firel

Do you hear; my hero of Austerlitz? Let us have a third bottle of

champagne to put the flame out!" The old soldier wagged his head,

rolled his goggle-eyes, until I expected to see them slip out of

their sockets; placed his dirty forefinger by the. side of his broken

nose; solemnly ejaculated "Coffee!" and immediately ran off into an

inner room.

The word pronounced by the eccentric veteran, seemed to have a magical effect on the rest of the company present. With one accord

they all rose to depart. Probably they had expected to profit by my

intoxication; but finding that my new friend was benevolently bent on preventing me from getting dead drunk, had now abandoned all hope of thriving pleasantly on my winnings. Whatever their motive might be, at any rate they went away in a body. When the old soldier returned, and sat down again opposite to me at the table, we had the room to ourselves. I could see the croupier, in a sort of vestibule which opened out of it, eating his supper in solitude. The silence was now deeper than ever. 83

A sudden change, too, had come over the "ex-brave.1' He assumed

a portentously solemn look; and when he spoke to me again, his speech was ornamented by no oaths, enforced by no finger-snapping, enlivened

by no apostrophes, or exclamations.

"Listen, my dear sir," said he, in mysteriously confidential

tones—"listen to an old soldier’s advice, I have been to the mistress of the home (a very charming woman, with a genius for cookeryl) to impress on her the necessity of making us some particularly strong and good coffee. You must drink this coffee in order to get rid of your little amiable exaltation of spirits, before you think of going home—you must, my good and gracious friend! With all that money to take home to-night, it is a sacred duty to yourself to have your wits about you. You are known to be a winner to an enormous extent, by several gentlemen present to-night, who, in a certain point of view, are very worthy and excellent fellows; but they are mortal men, my dear sir, and they have their amiable weaknesses! Need I say more?

Ah, no, no! you understand me! Now, this is what you must do"-send for a cabriolet when you feel quite well again-—draw up all the windows when you get into it—and tell the driver to take you home only through the large and well-lighted thoroughfares. Do this; and you and your money will be safe. Do this; and to-morrow you will thank an old soldier for giving you a word of honest advice."

Just as the ex-brave ended his oration in vary lachrymose tones, the coffee came in, ready poured out in two cups. My attentive friend handed me one of the cups, with a bow, I was parched with thirst,

BOWUNG GREEN STATE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY 84

and drank it off at a draught. Almost instantly afterwards, I was

seized with a fit of giddiness, and felt more completely intoxicated

than ever. The room whirled round and round furiously; the old soldier

seemed to be regularly bobbing up and down before me, like the piston

of a steam-engine. I was half deafened by a violent singing in my

ears; a feeling of utter bewilderment, helplessness, idiotcy, over­

came me. I rose from my chair, holding on by the table to keep my balance; and stammered out, that I felt dreadfully unwell—so unwell, that I did not know how I was to get home,

"My dear friend," answered the old soldier; and even his voice seemed to be bobbing up and down, as he spoke—"My dear friend, it would be madness to go home, in your state. You would be sure to lose your money; you might be robbed and murdered with the greatest ease.

I am going to sleep here; do you sleep here, too—they make up capital beds in this house—take one; sleep off the effects of the wine, and go home safely with your winnings, to-morrow—to-morrow, in broad daylight,"

I had no power of thinking, no feeling of any kind, but the feeling that I must lie down somewhere, immediately, and fall off into a cool, refreshing, comfortable sleep. So I agreed eagerly to the proposal about the bed, and took the offered arms of the old soldier and the croupier-—the latter having been summoned to show the way.

They led me along some passages and up a short flight of stairs into the bedroom which I was to occupy. The ex-brave shook me warmly by the hand; proposed that we should breakfast together the next morning; 85

and then, followed by the croupier, left me for the night,

I ran to the wash-hand-stand; drank some of the water in my

jug; poured the rest out, and plunged my face into it—then sat down

in a chair, and tried to compose myself, I soon felt better. The

change for my lungs, from the fetid atmosphere of the gambling-room

to the cool air of the apartment I now occupied; the almost equally refreshing change for my eyes, from the glaring gas-lights of the

"Salon" to the dim, quiet flicker of one bed-room candle; aided won­ derfully the restorative effects of cold water. The giddiness left me, and I began to feel a little like a reasonable being again. My first thought was of the risk of sleeping all night in a gambling- house; my second, of the still greater risk of trying to get out after the house was closed, and of going home alone at night, through the streets of Fhris, with a large sum of money about me. I had slept in worse places than this, in the course of my travels; so I deter­ mined to lock, bolt, and barricade my door.

Accordingly, I secured myself against all intrusion; looked under the bed, and into the cupboard; tried the fastening of the window; and then, satisfied that I had taken every proper precaution, pulled off my upper clothing, put my light, which was a dim one, on the hearth among a feathery litter of wood ashes: and got into bed, with the handkerchief full of money under my pillow,

I soon felt, not only that I could not go to sleep, but that

I could not even close my eyes, I was wide awake, and in a high fever. Every nerve in my body trembled—every one of my senses 86

seemed to be pretermturally sharpened. I tossed, and rolled, and

tried every kind of position, and perseveringly sought out the cold

corners of the bed, and all to no purpose. Now, I thrust my arms

over the clothes; now, I poked them under the clothes; now, I violently

shot my legs straight out, down to the bottom of the bed; now, I con­ vulsively coiled them up as near my chin as they would go; now, I shook out my crumpled pillow, changed it to the cool side, patted it flat, and lay down quietly on my back; now, I fiercely doubled it in two, set it up on end, thrust it against the board of the bed, and tried a sitting posture. Every effort was in vain; I groaned with vexation, as I felt that I ms in for a sleepless night.

What could I do? I had no book to read. And yet, unless .1 found out some method of diverting my mind, I felt certain that I was in the condition to imagine all sorts of horrors; to rack my brains with forebodings of every possible and impossible danger; in short, to pass the night in suffering all conceivable varieties of nervous terror. I raised myself on my elbow, and looked about the room—which was brightened by a lovely moonlight pouring straight through the window—to see if it contained any pictures or ornaments, that I could at all clearly distinguish. While my eyes wandered from wall to wall, a remembrance of Le Maistre’s delightful little book, "Voyage autour de Ma Chambre," occurred to me, I resolved to imitate the French author, and find occupation and amusement enough to relieve the tedium of my wakefulness, by making a mental inventory of every article of furniture I could see, and by following up to their sources the multi- 87

tilde of associations which even a chair, a table, or a wash-hand-

stand, may be made to call forth.

In the nervous unsettled state of my mind at that moment, I

found it much easier to make ray proposed inventory, than to make

my proposed reflections, and soon gave up all hope of thinking in

Le Maistre's fanciful track—or, indeed, thinking at all, I looked

about the room at the different articles of furniture, and did

nothing more. There was, first, the bed I was lying in—a. four-post

bed, of all things in the world to meet with in Parisi—yes, a

thorough clumsy British four-poster, with the regular top lined

with chintz—the regular fringed valance all round—the regular

stifling, unwholesome curtains, which I remembered having mechan­

ically drawn hack against the posts, without particularly noticing

the bed when I first got into the room. Then, there was the

marble-topped wash-hand-stand, from which the water I had spilt, in my hurry to pour it out, was still dripping, slowly and more slowly,

on to the brick floor. Then, two small chairs, with my coat, waist­

coat, and trousers flung on them. Then, a large elbow chair covered with dirty-white dimity: with my cravat and shirt-collar thrown over the back. Then, a chest of drawers, with two of the brass handles off, and a tawdry, broken china inkstand placed on it by way of ornament for the top. Then, the dressing-table, adorned by a very small looking-glass, and a very large pincushion. Then, the window— an unusually large window. Then, a dark old picture, which the feeble candle dimly showed me. It was the picture of a fellow in a high

Spanish hat, crowned with a plume of towering feathers, A swarthy 88

sinister ruffian, looking upward; shading his eyes with his hand, and

looking intently upward—it might be at some tall gallows at which

he was going to be hanged. At any rate he had the appearance of

thoroughly deserving it.

This picture put a kind of constraint upon me to look upward

too--at the top of the bed. It was a gloomy and not an interesting

object, and I looked back at the picture. I counted the feathers in

the can's hat; they stood out in relief; three, white; two, green, I

observed the crown of his hat, which was of a conical shape, according

to the fashion supposed to have been favoured by Guido Fawkes, I

wondered what he was looking up at. It couldn’t be at the stars; such

a desperado was neither astrologer nor astronomer. It must be at the

high gallows, and he was going to be hanged presently. Would the

executioner come into possession of his conical crowned hat, and plume

, of feathers? I counted the feathers again; three, white; two, green.

While I still lingered over this very improving and intellectual

employment, my thoughts insensibly began to wander. The moonlight

shining into the room reminded me of a certain moonlight night in

England—the night after a pic-nic party in a Welsh valley. Every

incident of the drive homeward through lovely scenery, which the moon­

light made lovelier than ever, came back to my remembrance, though I

had never given the pic-nic a thought for years; though, if I had

tried to recollect it, I could certainly have recalled little or

nothing of that scene long past. Of all the wonderful faculties that

help to tell us we are immortal, which speaks the sublime truth more 89

eloquently than memory? Here was I, in a strange house of the most

suspicious character, in a situation of uncertainty, and even of peril,

which might seem to make the cool exercise of my recollection almost

out of the question; nevertheless remembering, quite involuntarily,

places, people, conversations, minute circumstances of every kind,

which I had thought forgotten for ever, which I could not possibly

have recalled at will, even under the most favourable auspices. And

what cause had produced in a moment the whole of this strange, compli­

cated, mysterious effect?. Nothing but some rays of moonlight shining

in at my bedroom window,

I was still thinking of the pic-nic; of our merriment on the

drive home; of the sentimental young lady who would quote Childe

Harold, because it was moonlight, I ms absorbed by these past scenes

and past amusements, when, in an instant, the thread on which my

memories hung, snapped asunder; my attention immediately came back

to present things, more vividly than ever, and I found myself, I neither

knew why nor wherefore, looking hard at the picture again.

Looking for what? Good God, the man had pulled his hat down

on his brews 1—No 1 The hat itself was gone! Where was the conical

crown? Where the feathers; three,white; two, green? Not there! In

place of the hat and feathers, what dusky object was it that now hid his forehead—his eyes—his shading hand? Was the bed moving?

I turned on my back, and looked up. Was I mad? drunk? dreaming? giddy again? or, was the top of the bed really moving down-sinking slowly, regularly, silently, horribly, right down throughout the whole 90

of its length and breadth—right down upon Me, as I lay underneath?

My blood seemed to stand still; a deadly paralysing coldness

stole all over me, as I turned my head round on the pillow, and deter­

mined to test whether the bed top was really moving, or not, by keep­

ing my eye on the nan in the picture. The next look in that direction

was enough. The dull, black, frowsy outline of the valance above me was within an inch of being parallel with his waist. I still looked

breathlessly, And steadily, and slowly—very slowly—I saw the figure, and the line of frame below the figure, vanish, as the valance moved

down before it,

I am, constitutionally, anything but timid, I have been, on more than one occasion, in peril of my life, and have not lost my

self-possession for an instant; but, when the conviction first settled

on my mind that the bed-top was really moving, was steadily and con­

tinuously sinking down upon me, I looked up for one awful minute, or more, shuddering, helpless, panic-stricken, beneath the hideous machinery for murder, which was advancing closer and closer to suffo­ cate me where I lay.

Then the instinct of self-preservation came, and nerved me to save my life, while there was yet time. I got out of bed very quietly, and quickly dressed myself again in my upper clothing. The candle, fully spent, went out, I sat down in the arm-chair that stood near, and watched the bed-top slowly descending. I was literally spell-bound by it. If I had heard footsteps behind me, I could not have turned round; if a means of escape had been miraculously provided for me, I 91

could not have moved to take advantage of it. The whole life in me,

was, at that moment, concentrated in my eyes.

It descended—the whole canopy, Tilth the fringe round it, came

down-down—close down; so close that there was not room now to

squeeze my finger between the bed-top and the bed. I felt at the

sides, and discovered that what had appeared to me, from beneath, to

be the ordinary light canopy of a four-post bed was in reality a thick,

broad mattress, the substance of which was concealed by the valance and its fringe, I looked up, and saw the four posts rising hideously bare. In the middle of the bed-top was a huge wooden screw that had

evidently worked it down through a hole in the ceiling, just as

ordinary presses are worked down on the substance selected for com­

pression, The frightful apparatus moved without making the faintest noise. There had been no creaking as it came down; there was now not the faintest sound from the room above. Amid a dead and awful silence

I beheld before me—in the nineteenth century, and in the civilised capital of France-such a machine for secret murder by suffocation, as might have existed in the worst days of the Inquisition, in the lonely Inns among the Hartz Mountains, in the mysterious tribunals of

Westphalia! Still, as I looked on it, I could not move; I could hardly breathe; but I began to recover the power of thinking; and, in a moment, I discovered the murderous conspiracy framed against me, in all its horror.

My cup of coffee had been drugged, and drugged too strongly, I had been saved from being smothered, by having taking an overdose of some narcotic. How I had chafed and fretted at the fever-fit which 92

had preserved my life by keeping me awakel How recklessly I had

confided myself to the two wretches who had led me into this room,

determined, for the sake of my winnings, to kill me in my sleep, by

the surest and most horrible contrivance for secretly accomplishing my destruction! How many men, winners like me, had slept, as I had

proposed to sleep, in that bed; and never been seen or heard of morel

I shuddered as I thought of it.

But, erelong, all thought was again suspended by the sight of

the murderous canopy moving once more. After it had remained on the bed—as nearly as I could guess—about ten minutes, it began to move up again. The villains, who worked it from above, evidently believed that their purpose was now accomplished, Slowly and silently, as. it had descended, that horrible bed-top rose towards its former place.

When it reached the upper extremities of the four posts, it reached the ceiling too. Neither hole nor screw could be seen—the bed became, in appearance, an ordinary bed again, the canopy, an ordinary canopy, even to the most suspicious eyes.

Now, for the first time, I was able to move, to rise from my chair, to consider of how I should escape. If I betrayed, by the smallest noise, that the attempt to suffocate me had failed, I was certain to be murdered. Had I nude any noise already? I listened intently, looking towards the door. Not no footsteps in the passage outside; no sound of a tread, light or heavy, in the room above—abso­ lute silence everywhere. Besides locking and bolting my door, I had moved an old wooden chest against it, which I had found under the bed. 93

To remove this chest (my blood ran cold, as I thought what its contents

might bet) without making some disturbance, was impossible} and, more­

over, to think of escaping through the house, now barred-up for the

night, was sheer insanity. Only one chance was left me—the window.

I stole to it on tiptoe.

My bedroom was on the first floor, above an entresol, and looked into the hack street, which you have sketched in your view. I raised my hand to open the window, knowing that on that action hung, by the merest hair's-breadth, my chance of safety. They keep vigilant watch in a House of Murder™if any part of the frame cracked, if the hinge creaked, I ms, perhaps, a lost roanl It must have occupied me at least five minutes, reckoning by time-~five hours reckoning by suspense--to open that window. I succeeded in doing it silently, in doing it with all the dexterity of a house-breaker: and then looked down into the street. To leap the distance beneath me, would be almost certain destruction! Next, I looked round at the sides of the house. Down the left side, ran the thick water-pipe which you have drawn—it passed close by the outer edge of the window. The moment I saw the pipe, I knew I was saved; my breath came and went freely for the first time since I had seen the canopy of the bed moving down upon met

To some men, the means of escape which 1 had discovered might have seemed difficult and dangerous enough—to me, the prospect of slipping down the pip>e into the street did not suggest even a thought of peril, I had always been accustomed, by the practice of gymnastics, to keep up my schoolboy powers as a daring and expert climber; and 94

knew that my head, hands, and feet would serve me faithfully in any

hazards of ascent or descent, I had already got one leg over the window-sill, when I remembered the handkerchief, filled with money,

under my pillow. I could well have afforded to leave it behind me;

but I was revengefully determined that the miscreants of the gambling- house should miss their plunder as well as their victim. So I went hack to the bed, and tied the heavy handkerchief at my hack by my cravat. Just as I had made it tight, and fixed it in a comfortable place, I thought I heard a sound of breathing outside the door, The chill feeling of horror ran through me again as I listened. No! dead silence still in the passage—I had only heard the night air blowing softly into the room. The next moment X was on the window-sill—and the next, I had a firm grip on the water-pipe with my hands and knees,

I slid down into the street easily and quietly, as I thought

I should, and immediately set off, at the top of my speed, to a branch

"Prefecture" of Police, which I knew was situated in the immediate neighbourhood. A "Sub-Prefect" and several picked men among his sub­ ordinates, happened to be up, maturing, I believe, some scheme for discovering the perpetrator of a mysterious murder, which all Paris was talking of just then. When I began my story, in a breathless hurry and in very bad French, I could see that the Sub-Prefect sus­ pected me of being a drunken Englishman, who had robbed somebody, but he soon altered his opinion, as I went on; and before I had anything like concluded, he shoved all the papers before him into a drawer, put on his hat, supplied me with another (for I was bare-headed), 95

ordered a file of soldiers, desired his expert followers to get ready-

all sorts of tools for breaking open doors and ripping-up brick

flooring, and took my arm, in the most friendly and familiar manner

possible, to lead me with him out of the house. I will venture to

say, that when the Sub-Prefect was a little boy, and was taken for

the first time to the Play, he was not half as much pleased as he was

now at the job in prospect for him at the "Garabling-Housel”

Away we went through the streets, the Sub-Prefect cross-

examining and congratulating me in the same breath, as we marched at

the head of our formidable posse comitatus. Sentinels were placed at

the tuck and front of the gambling-house the moment we got to it; a

tremendous battery of knocks was directed against, the door; a light appeared at a window; I waited to conceal myself behind the police—

then came more knocks, and a cry of "Open in the name of the law!"

At that terrible summons, bolts and looks gave way before an invisible hand, and the moment after, the Sub-Prefect was in the passage, con­ fronting a waiter, half-dressed and ghastly pale. This was the. short dialogue which immediately took place,

"We want to see the Englishman who is sleeping in this house?"

"He went away hours ago."

"He did no such thing. His friend went away; he remained.

Shoxv us to his bedroom! "

"I swear to you, Monsieur le Sous-Prefet, he is not here! he——"

"I swear to you, Monsieur le Garcon, he is. He slept here— 96

he didn't find your bed comfortable-?-he came to us to complain of it

—here he is, among my men—and here am I, ready to look for a flea

or two in his bedstead. Pi cardI (calling to one of the subordinates, and pointing to the waiter) collar that man, and tie his hands behind him. Now, then, gentlemen, let us walk up stairsI"

Every man and woman in the house was secured—the "Old Soldier," the first. Then I identified the bed in which I had slept; and then we went into the room above. No object that was at all extraordinary appeared in any part of it. The Sub-Prefect looked round the place, commanded everybody to be silent, stamped twice on the floor, called for a candle, looked attentively at the spot he had stamped on, and ordered the flooring there to be carefully taken up. This was done in no time. Lights were produced, and we saw a deep raftered cavity between the floor of this room and the ceiling of the room beneath.

Through this cavity there ran perpendicularly a sort of case of iron, thickly greased; and inside the case, appeared the screw, which com­ municated with the bed-top below. Extra lengths of screw, freshly oiled-levers covered with felt—all the complete upper works of a heavy press, constructed with infernal ingenuity so as to join the fixtures below—and, when taken to pieces again, to go into the smallest possible compass, were next discovered; and pulled out on the floor. After some little difficulty, the Sub-Prefect succeeded in putting the machinery together, and, leaving his men to work it, descended with me to the bedroom. The smothering canopy was then lowered, but not so noiselessly as I had seen it lowered. When I 97

mentioned this to the Sub-Prefect, his answer, simple as it was, had

a terrible significance. "My men," said he, "are working down the

bed-top for the first time—the men whose money you won, were in

better practice.”

We left the house in the sole possession of two police agents-

every one of the inmates being removed to prison on the spot. The

Sub-Prefect, after taking down my "proces-verbal" in his office,

returned with me to my hotel to get my passport. "Do you think," I

asked, as I gave it to him, "that any men have really been smothered

in that bed, as they tried to smother me?"

"I have seen dozens of drowned men laid out at the Morgue," answered the Sub-Prefect, "in whose pocket-books were found letters,

stating that they had committed suicide in the Seine, because they

had lost everything at the gaming-table. Do I know how many of those men entered the same gambling-house that you entered? won as you won?

took that bed as you took it? slept in it? were smothered in it? and were privately thrown into the river, with a letter of explanation written by the murderers and placed in their pocket-books? No man can say how mny, or how few, have suffered the fate from which you have escaped. The people of the gambling-house kept their bedstead machinery a secret from us—even from the police! The dead kept the rest of the secret for them. Good night, or rather good morning,

Monsieur Faulkner! Be at my office again at nine o’clock—in the meantime, au revoir!"

The rest of my story is soon told. I was examined, and 98

re-examined; the gambling-house was strictly searched all through,

from top to bottom; the prisoners were separately interrogated; and

two of the less guilty among them made a confession. I discovered

that the Old Soldier was the master of the gambling-house—justice

discovered that he had been drummed out of the army, as a vagabond,

years ago; that he had been guilty of all sorts of villanies since;

that he was in possession of stolen property, which the owners

identified; and that he, the croupier, another accomplice, and the woman who had made my cup of coffee, were all in the secret of the

bedstead. There appeared some reason to doubt whether the inferior

persons attached to the house knew anything of the suffocating machinery; and they received the benefit of that doubt, by being

treated simply as thieves and vagabonds. As for the Old Soldier and his two head-myrmidons, they went to the galleys; the woman who had drugged my coffee was imprisoned for I forgot how many years; the regular attendants at the gambling-house were considered "suspicious," and placed under "surveillance;" and I became, for one whole week

(which is a long time), the head "lion" in Parisian society. My adventure was dramatised by three illustrious playmakers, but never saw theatrical daylight; for the censorship forbade the introduction on the stage of a correct copy of the gambling-house bedstead.

Two good results were produced by my adventure, which any censorship must have approved. In the first place, it helped to jus­ tify the Government in forthwith carrying out their determination to put down all gambling-houses; in the second place, it cured me of ever 99

again trying "Rouge et Noir" as an amusement. The sight of a green

cloth, with packs of cards and heaps of money on it, will henceforth

be for ever associated in my mind with the sight of a bed-canopy de­

scending to suffocate me, in the silence and darkness of the night,"

Just as Mr. Faulkner pronounced the last words, he started in

his chair, and assumed a stiff, dignified position, in a great hurry,

"Bless my soult" cried he—with a comic look of astonishment and

vexation—"while I have been telling you what is the real secret of

of my interest in the sketch you have so kindly given to me, I have

altogether forgotten that I came here to sit for my portrait. For

the last hour, or more, I must have been the worst model you ever had

to paint froml"

"On the contrary, you have been the best," said I, "I have been painting from your expression; and, while telling your story, you have unconsciously shown me the natural expression I wanted," 100

The Personal Essay (Headnote Commentary)

It is virtually impossible for most authors to exclude personal

references from their writing and Wilkie Collins is no exception.

Within the list of articles contributed to Household Words there are

at least eight that lave been linked in part to personal experiences

and events in his life. •' The situation which inspired "Bold Words

by a Bachelor" concerned the marriage of Wilkie’s friend, John Everett 157 Millais, to the former Mrs. John Ruskin. Apparently the new Mrs.

Millais decided that Wilkie would be of little assistance when she

came to London into polite society. The personal overtones in this

essay reveal what must have happened to Millais: "Even while he was

courting, I kept my hand on him," Wilkie wrote, "I had no suspicion

then that I was to lose him from that moment. I only discovered the

truth when I paid my first visit ... I found a pattern husband and wife. The one thing I did not find was my friend." The tone of this

essay is more serious and pathetic than most of the other personal essays even though the author attempts to disguise himself as a crotchety old bachelor who is annoyed by the flood of wedding invita­ tions he has received. But Wilkie and his narrator do not continue to lament their lost friend; instead, the essay is expanded into a broader commentary on marriage. No doubt Wilkie knew that he must not tread too heavily upon the "Institution of Marriage" because carried middle-class women comprised the largest segment of the 158 Household Words reading public. By tactfully stating that wives 101 possess the power and responsibility to maintain their husbands’ continuing friendships, Collins gives constructive criticism without provoking the wrath of the "fairer sex," To aid him in this delicate task of disarming these readers, Collins allows his bachelor persona to candidly admit that he may be set in his ways and might be over reacting to this situation. More tolerance and understanding is given as this irritable bachelor allows that mothers and fathers suffer a similar emotional fain when they give a daughter in marriage. With these necessary preparations made, Wilkie shows yet another facet of love that a married woman can polish to a warm luster if only she becomes aware of her potential as a wife,

**********

O 102

"Bold Words by a Bachelor" Household Words, XIV (December 13, I856), 505-507.

The postman's knocks at my door have been latterly more

frequent than usual; and out of the increased number of letters left for me, it has happened that an unusually large proportion

have contained wedding cards. Just as there seem to be certain days when all the beautiful women in London take to going out together,

certain days when all the people we know appear to be conspiring to meet us at every turn in one afternoon's walk—so there seem to be

times and seasons when all our friends are inexplicably bent on getting married together. Capricious in. everything, the law of

chances is especially whimsical, according to my experience, in its influence over the solemnisation of matrimony. Six months ago, there was no need for me to leave a single complimentary card anywhere, for weeks and weeks together. Just at the present time,

I find myself perpetually wasting my money in cab-hire, and wearing out my card-case by incessant use. My friends are marrying recklessly in all sorts of opposite directions, and are making the bells a greater nuisance than usual in every parish of London,

These curious circumstances have set me thinking on the subject of marriage, and have recalled to my mind certain reflections in connection with that important change in life, which I first made when I was not quite such an incurably-settled old bachelor as I am at the present moment. It occurred to me, at that past time, and it occurs to me still, that, while great stress is laid in ordinary 103 books and ordinary talk on the personal interest which a nan has himself, and on the family interest which his near relations have also, in his marrying an affectionate and sensible woman, sufficient importance has not been attached to the interest of another sort, which the tried and worthy friends of his bachelor days ought to feel, and, for the most part, do feel, in his getting a good wife. It really and truly depends upon her, in more cases than I should like to enumerate, whether her husband’s friendships are to be continued, after his marriage, in all their integrity, or are only to be main­ tained as a mere social form. It is hardly necessary for me to repeat—but I will do so, in order to avoid the slightest chance of misconstruction—that I am here speaking only of the worthiest, the truest, the longest-tried friends of a man’s bachelor days. Towards these every sensible married woman feels, as I believe, that she owes a duty for her husband’s sake. But, unfortunately, there are such female phenomena in the world as fond wives and devoted mothers, who are anything rather than sensible women the moment they are required to step out of the sphere of their conjugal and maternal instincts.

Women of this sort have an unreasonable jealousy of their husbands in snail things; and on the misuse of their influence to serve the interests of that jealousy lies but too often the responsibility of severing such friendships as no roan can hope to form for the second time in the course of his life. By the severing of friendships, I do not mean the breaking off of all intercourse, but the fatal changing of the terms on which lives with his friend—the casting of 104

the first slight shadow which alters the look of the whole prospect.

It is astonishing by what a multitude of slight threads the firm

continuity of brotherly regard is maintained. Many a woman has

snapped asunder all the finer ligaments which once connected her husband and his friend; and has thought it enough if she left the two still attached by the coarser ties which are at the common disposal of all the world. Many a woman—delicate, affectionate, and kind within her own narrow limits—has committed that heavy social offence, and has never felt afterwards a single pang of pity or remorse.

These bold words will be unpopular enough, I am afraid, with certain readers; but I am an old bachelor, and I must have licence to speak the crabbed truth. I respect and admire a good husband and father, but I cannot shake off the equally sincere reverence that I feel for a good friend; and I must be allowed to tell some married ladies—what Society ought to tell them a little oftener—that there are other affections, in this world, which are noble and honourable, besides those of conjugal and parental origin. It nay be an asser­ tion of a very shocking and unexpected kind, but I must nevertheless be excused for saying, that some of the best wives and mothers in the land have given the heart-ache to some of the best friends. While they have been behaving like patterns of conjugal propriety, they have been estranging men who would once have gone to the ’world’s end to serve each other. I, as a single man, can say nothing of the dreadful wrench—not the less dreadful because it is inevitable—when 105

a father and mother lose a daughter, in order that a lover may gain

a wife. But I can speak feelingly of the shock of losing a dear

friend, in order that a bride may gain a devoted husband. Nothing

shall ever persuade me (possibly because I am not married) that there

is not a flaw of some sort in the love for a wife which is made

complete, in some people’s eyes, by forced contributions from the love which belongs to a friend. I know that a nan and woman who make a happy marriage have gained the summit of earthly felicity; but do they never reach that enviable eminence without having trampled underfoot something venerable, or something tender by the way?

Bear with me, indignant wives—bear with me, if I recal the long-past time when one of the handsomest women I ever saw, took my dearest friend away from me, and destroyed, in one short day, the whole pleasant edifice that we two had been building up together since we were boys at school. I shall never be as fond of any human being again, as I was of that one friend, and, until the beautiful woman came between us, I believe there was nothing in this world that he would not have sacrificed and have done for me. Even while he was courting, I kept my hold on him. Against opposition on the part of his bride and her family, he stipulated bravely that I should be his best man on the wedding-day. The beautiful woman grudged me one small corner in his heart, even at that time; but he was true to me—he persisted—and I was the first to shake hands with him when he was a married ran, I had no suspicion then that I was to lose him from that moment, I only discovered the truth when I went to pay my first 106

visit to the bride and bridegroom at their abode in the country. I

found a beautiful house, exquisitely kept room top to bottom; I found

a hearty welcome; I found a good dinner and an airy bedroom; I found

a pattern husband and a pattern wife: the one thing I did not find

was my old friend. Something stood up in his clothes, shook hands

with me, pressed wine on me, called me by my Christian name, and

inquired what I was doing in my profession. It was certainly some­

thing that had a trick of looking like my former comrade and brother;

something that nobody in my situation could have complained of with

the smallest reason; something with all the brightness of the old

metal about it, but without the sterling old ring; something, in

short, which made me instinctively take my chamber-candlestick early

on the first night of my arrival, and say good night while the

beautiful woman and pattern wife was present to keep her eye on me.

Can I ever forget the language of that eye, on that occasionl—-the volumes it spoke in one glance of cruel triumph! "No more sacred

secrets between you two," it said, brightly. "When you trust him now, you must trust me. You may sacrifice yourself for your love of him

over and over again still, but he shall make no sacrifices now for you, until he has first found out how they affect my convenience and my pleasure. Your place in his heart novi, is where I choose it to be. I have stormed the citadel, and I will bring children by-and-by to keep the ramparts; and you, the faithful old soldier of former years—you have got your discharge, and may sit and sun yourself as well as you can at the outer gates. You have been his truest friend, 107 but he has another now, and need trouble you no longer, except in the capacity of witness of his happiness. This, you will observe, is in the order of nature, and in the recognised fitness of things; and he hopes you will see it—and so do I, And he trusts you will sleep well under his (and iny) new roof—and so do I. And he wishes you good night—and so do II"

Many, many years have passed since I first learned these hard truths; but I can never forget the pang that it cost me to get them by heart at a moment’s notice. My old friend lives still—that is to say, I have an intimate acquaintance, who asks me to all his dinners, and who made me godfather to one of his children; but the brother of my love, who died to me on the day when I paid him the nsrriage visit, has never come back to life since that time. On the altar at which we two once sacrificed, the ashes lie cold. A model husband and father has risen from them, and that result is, I suppose, the only one that any third person has a right to expect. It may be so; but, to this day, I cannot help thinking that the beautiful woman would have done better if she could have made a fond husband without at the same time marring a good friend.

Readers ■will, I am afraid, not be wanting, who will be inclined to tell me that the lady to whom I have been referring, only asserted the fair privilege that was hers by right of marriage; and that my sense of injury springs from the unjustifiable caprice and touchy selfishness of an old bachelor. Without attempting to defend myself,

I may at least be allowed to inquire into the lady’s motive for using 108

her privilege—-or, in plainer terms, for altering the relations in which my friend and I had stood towards one another since boyhood.

Her idea, I presume to have been, that, if I preserved my old footing with her husband, I should be taking away some part of his affection that belonged to her. According to my idea of it, she was taking away something which had belonged to me, and which no effort on her part could afterwards convert to her own use. It is hard to make some women understand that a husband’s heart—let him be ever so devoted and affectionste—has vacant places in it which they can never hope to fill. It is a house in which they and their children, natur­ ally and properly, occupy all the largest apartments and supply all the prettiest furniture; but there are spare rooms which they cannot enter, which are reserved all through the lease of life for inevitable guests of some sort from the world outside. It is better to let in the old friend than some of the substituted visitors, who are sure, sooner or later, to enter where there are rooms ready for them, by means of pass-keys obtained without the permission of the permanent tenants. Am I wrong in making such assertions as these? I should be willing enough to think it probable—being only a bachelor—if ray views were based on mere theory. But my opinions, such as they are, have been formed with the help of proofs and facts, I have met with bright examples of wives who have strengthened their husbands’ friend­ ships as they never could have been strengthened except under the influence of a woman’s care, employed in the truest, the tenderest, the most delicate way, I have seen men rescued from the tad habits 109

of half a lifetime by the luck of keeping faithful friends who were

the husbands of sensible wives. It is a very trite and true remark

that the deadliest enmities between men have been occasioned by

women. It is not less certain-—though it is a far less widely-

accepted truth—that some (I wish I could say many) of the strongest

friendships have been knit most closely by women’s helping hands.

The real fact seems to be, that the general idea of the scope and purpose of the Institution of Marriage is a miserably narrow one.

The same senseless prejudice which leads some people, when driven to

extremes, to the practical confession (though it my not be made in

plain words) that they would rather see murder committed under their

own eyes than approve of any project for obtaining a law of divorce which shall be equal in its operation on husbands and wives of all ranks, who can not live together, is answerable also for the mis­

chievous error in principle of narrowing the practice of the social virtues, in married people, to themselves and their children, A man loves his wife—which is, in other words, loving himself—and loves his offspring, which is equivalent to saying that he has the natural instincts of humanity; and, when he has gone thus far, he has asserted himself as a model of all the virtues of life, in the estimation of some people. In my estimation, he has only begun with the best virtues, and has others yet to practise before he can approach to the standard of a socially complete man. Can there be I a lower idea of Marriage than the idea which makes it, in fact, an institution for the development of selfishness on a large and 110

respectable scale? If I am not justified in using the word selfish­

ness, tell me what character a good husband presents (viewed plainly

as a man) when he goes out into the world, leaving all his sympathies

in his wife's boudoir, and all his affections up-stairs in the mursery,

and giving to his friends such shreds and patches of formal recog­

nition, in place of true love and regard, as consist in asking them

to an occasional dinner-party, and granting them the privilege of

presenting his children with silver mugs? He is a model of a husband,

the ladies will say, I dare not contradict them; but I should like

to know whether he is also a model of a friend?

No, no. Bachelor as I am, I have a higher idea of Marriage

than this. The social advantages which it is fitted to produce ought

to extend beyond one man and one woman, to the circle of society amid which they move. The light of its beauty must not be shut up within

the four walls which enclose the parents and the family, but must

flow out into the world, and shine upon the childless and the solitary, because it has warmth enough and to spare, and because it may make

them, even in their way, happy too, I began these few lines by asking

sympathy and attention for the interest which a nan’s true friends have, when he marries, in his choosing a wife who will let them be friends still, who will even help them to mingling in closer brother­ hood, if help they need. I lay down the pen, suggesting to some ladies—affectionately suggesting, if they will let me use the word, after some of the bold things I have said—that it is in their power to deprive the bachelor of the sole claim he has left to social Ill

recognition and pre-eminence, by making married men what many of them are, and what more might be—the best and truest friends that are to be found in the world. 112

The Informal Essay—The Arts (Headnote Commentary)

When Wilkie writes about painting and the theatre, he works with two areas in which he had a good deal of experience, It would be logical to anticipate that these essays would be highly opinion­ ated since his heritage is rooted in art. His paternal grandfather was an art dealer specializing in cleaning and restoring old paint­ ings; his father was a landscape painter and member of the Royal

Academy, Even his name comes from a famous English painter and close 159 friend of his father’s, Sir David Wilkie. Collins was also inter­ ested in new art movements, since his brother Charles was deeply involved with the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, Yet Wilkie does not align his views on art with any one school or philosophy, traditional or otherwise.Instead, he prefers to encourage and cultivate an approach to art palatable for the layman, "To Think or Be Thought

For" also reveals the shortcomings of art criticism in his own age and pleads with the middle-class to take courage and formulate their own opinions. Even Dickens supported Wilkie’s criticism of estab­ lished criticism by suggesting that the word "cant" of criticism he 161 added for stronger emphasis. Both editor and author have taken up the cause of Broadening cultural taste by popularizing the enjoy­ ment of what was originally meant to be pniblic property—the paint­ ings in the National Gallery of England,

At the same time Wilkie encouraged the laymen to cast off their awe of criticism, he also realized that an enlightened appre­ ciation of any art form, including the popular theatre, would be slow 113

in developing.

"Dramatic Grubb Street" is constructed around two polite and

courteous letters, in which an educated middle-class reader asks for an explanation for the debased condition of the mid-nineteenth century

English theatre, Mr. A. N. Author answers Mr. Reader’s inquiry with a thorough knowledge of the "commercial machinery" that operated the mid-Victorian theatre and the type of audience that attended these performances. In addition, Collins tactfully recognized the presence of a large educated public that was willing to support original plays in order to flatter the more "respectable" in the Household Words audience.

Not all was in complete darkness on the English stage in this period and Wilkie demonstrates the progress made for the theatre 162 patron through the farcical character of John Bull. In "A Breach of British Privilege" Bull indignantly laments the passing of "uncom­ fortable" local color in the theatre while demonstrating that the theatre had truly become popular for all classes, John Bull grumbles about these improvements because his fellow-countrymen from lower classes are made as comfortable as he, thereby robbing his class of some of the prestige due them. Again Wilkie demonstrates his talent for presenting the same material from a different point of view in an amusing and refreshing manner. ********** 114

"To Think, or Be Thought For?" Household Words, XIV (September 13» I856), 193-198.

Some weeks since, there appeared in the Times newspaper two

letters referring to the recent purchase for the National Gallery of

a picture by the old Venetian painter Bellini. The letters were

signed by gentlemen well known as connoisseurs and critics in the world of Art; the name of the one being Mr. William Coningham, and

the name of the other Doctor Waagen. Mr. Coningham wrote to inform

the public, as the result of his critical knowledge of painting, that

the Bellini had been "daubed over, "—that it was, "for educational

purposes, utterly worthless, "—and that the nation had been cruelly

imposed on in buying it. Doctor Waagen wrote (not with overstrained politeness) to inform the public, as the result of his critical knowledge of painting, that the picture was "decidedly genuine,"— that it "surpassed every example of the subject that he had hitherto seen by the master,"—and that the nation was unspeakably fortunate in having secured such a treasure. Mr. Coningham rejoined by recom­ mending all persons interested in the discussion to go and judge for themselves which was in the right, Dr. Waagen or himself. And there, so far as the writer of these lines knows, the matter ended.

It may, perhaps, tend to reassure all readers not deeply interested in discussing the last debateable purchase for the National

Gallery, if I state, at the outset, that I have no intention of entering into the controversy described above. I have only alluded to it because I think it affords a practical example of what a singularly conventional thing the question of the value or worthlessness of a 115 picture by an old master has become in our day. Here are two critics on art, notorious, on many past occasions, for discoursing learnedly and authoritatively on painting, both writing of the same picture, and both arriving at diametrically opposite conclusions respecting it. Surely, if nothing else will awaken the public mind from its indolent and hopeless dependence on arbitrary rules and critical opinions in matters of Art, the plain inference to which this remark­ able controversy leads ought to supply the necessary stimulant.

Surely the bewildered visitor to the National Gallery, standing opposite the Bellini, with Doctor Waagen on his right hand begging him to admire it, and Mr. Coningham on his left entreating him to despise it, must end, in mere self-defence, in shaking both the critical gentlemen off, and judging for himself, not of the Bellini only, but of eveiy other picture in the collection as well. If anything I can say here will help, in the smallest degree, towards encouraging intelligent people of any rank to turn a deaf ear to everything that critics, connoisseurs, lecturers, and compilers of guide-books can say to them, to trust entirely to their own common sense when they are looking at pictures, and to express their opinions boldly, without the slightest reference to any precedents whatever, I shall have exactly achieved the object with which I now apply myself to the writing of this paper.

Setting aside, then, all further reference to particular squabbles about particular pictures, let me now ask in regard to pictures in general, what it is that prevents the public from judging 116

for themselves, and why the influence of Art in England is still

limited to select circles,“-still unfelt, as the phrase is, by all

but the cultivated classes? Why do people want to look at their guide books, before they can make up their minds about an old picture? Why do they ask connoisseurs and professional friends for a marked

catalogue before they venture inside the walls of the exhibition-

rooms in Trafalgar Square? Why, when they are, for the most part, always ready to tell each other unreservedly what books they like, or what musical compositions are favourites with them, do they hesitate the moment pictures turn up as a topic of conversation, and intrench themselves doubtfully behind such cautious phrases, as, "I don’t pretend to understand the subject, "—"I believe such and such a picture is much admired, "—"I am no judge," and so on? No judge!

Does a really good picture want you to be a judge? Does it want you to have anything but eyes in your head, and the undisturbed possession of your senses? Is there any other branch of intellectual art which has such a direct appeal, by the very nature of it, to every sane human being as the art of painting? There it is, able to represent through a medium which offers itself to you palpably and immediately, in the shape of so many visible feet of canvass, actual human facts, and distinct aspects of Nature, which poetry can only described, and which music can but obscurely hint at. The Art which can do this, and which has done it over and over again both in past and present times, is surely of all arts that one which least requires a course of critical training before it can be approached on familiar terms. 11?

Whenever I see an intelligent man, which I often do, standing before

a really eloquent and true picture, and asking his marked catalogue,

or his newspaper, or his guide-book, whether he may safely admire it

or not, I think of a man standing winking both eyes in the full glare

of a cloudless August noon, and inquiring deferentially of an astro­

nomical friend whether he is really justified in saying that the sun

shinesI

But we have not yet fairly got at the main obstacle which

hinders the public from judging of pictures for themselves, and which, by a natural consequence, limits the influence of Art on the nation

generally. For my own part, I have long thought and shall always

continue to believe, that this same obstacle is nothing more or less

than the Cant of Criticism, which has got obstructively between Art and the people,—which has kept them asunder, and will keep them asunder until it is fairly pulled out of the way, and set aside at

once and for ever in its proper background place.

This is a bold thing to say; but I think I can advance some proofs that my assertion is not altogether so wild as it may appear at first sight. By the Cant of Criticism, I desire to express, in one word, the conventional laws and formulas, the authoritative rules and regulations which individual men set up to guide the tastes and in­ fluence the opinions of their fellow-creatures. When Criticism does not speak in too arbitrary a language, and when the laws it makes are ratified by the consent and approbation of the intelligent public in general, I have as much respect for it as anyone. But, when Criticism 118

sits altogether apart, speaks opinions that find no answering echo in

the general heart, and measures the greatness of intellectual work

by anything rather than by its power of appealing to all capacities

for admiration and enjoyment, from the very highest to the very

humblest,--then, as it seems to me, Criticism becomes Cant and

forfeits all claim to consideration and respect. It then becomes the

kind of criticism which I call Obstructive, and which has, I think, set

itself up fatally between the Art of Painting and the honest and

general appreciation of that Art by the People.

Let me try to make this still clearer by an example. A great

deal of obstructive criticism undoubtedly continues to hang as closely

as it can about Poetry and Music. But there are, nevertheless, state­

able instances, in relation to these two Arts, of the voice of the

critic and the voice of the people being on the same side. The tragedy

of Hamlet, for example, is critically considered to be the masterpiece

of dramatic poetry; and the tragedy of Hamlet is also, according to the

testimony of every sort of manager, the play, of all others, which can

be invariably depended on to fill a theatre with the greatest

certainty, act it when and how you will. Again, in music, the Don

Giovanni of Mozart, which is the admiration even of the direst pedant

producible from the ranks of musical connoisseurs, is also the

irresistible popular attraction which is always sure to fill the pit

and gallery at the opera. Here, at any rate, are two instances in which two great achievements of the past in poetry and music are alike viewed with admiration by the man who appreciates by instinct, 119

and the man who appreciates by reason and rule.

If we apply the same test to the achievements of the past in

Painting, where shall we find a similar instance of genuine concur­ rence between the few who are appointed to teach, and the many who are expected to learn? I put myself in the position of a man of fair capacity and average education, who labours under the fatal delusion that he will be helped to a sincere appreciation of the works of the

6ld Masters by asking critics and connoisseurs to form his opinions for him. I am sent to Italy as a matter of course. A general chorus of learned authorities tells me that Michael Angelo and Raphael are the two greatest painters that ever lived; and that the two recognised masterpieces of the highest High Art are the Last Judgment, in the

Sistine Chapel, and the Transfiguration, in the Vatican. It is not only Lanzi and Vasari, and hosts of later sages running smoothly after those two along the same critical grooves, who give me this informa­ tion. Even the greatest of English portrait-painters, the true and tender-hearted gentleman, Sir Joshua Reynolds, sings steadily with the critical chorus, note for note. When experience has made me wiser, I am able to detect clearly enough in the main principles which Reynolds has adopted in his Lectures on Art, the reason of his notorious want of success whenever he tried to rise above portraits to the regions of historical painting. But at the peiod of my innocence, I am simply puzzled and amazed, when I come to such a passage as the following in Sir Joshua's famous Fifth Lecture, where he sums up the comparative merits of Michael Angelo and Raphaels 120

"If we put these great artists in a line of comparison

with each other, (lectures Sir Joshua), Raphael had more taste and

fancy, Michael Angelo more genius and imagination. The one excelled

in beauty, the other in energy. Michael Angelo had more of the

poetical inspiration; his ideas are vast and sublime; his people

are a superior order of beings; there is nothing about them, nothing

in the air of their actions or their attitudes,, or the style and cast

of their limbs or features, that reminds us of their belonging to

our own species."

Here I get plainly enough at what Sir Joshua considers to be

the crowning excellence of high art. It is one.great proof of the

poetry and sublimity of Michael. Angelo’s pictures that the people

represented in them never remind us of our own species: which seems

equivalent to saying that the representation of a man made in the

image of Michael Angelo is a grander sight than the representation

of a man made in the image of God. I am a little staggered by these

principles of criticism; but as all the learned authorities that I

can get at seem to have adopted them, I do my best to follow the

example of my teachers, and set off reverently for Rome to see the

two works of art which"my critical masters tell me are the sublimest pictures that the world has yet beheld.

I go first to the Sistine Chapel; and, on a great blue- coloured wall at one end of it, I see painted a confusion of naked, knotty-bodied figures, sprawling up or tumbling down below a single figure, posted aloft in the middle, and apparently threatening the 121

rest with his hand. If I ask Lanzi, or Vasari, or Sir Joshua

Reynolds, or the gentleman who has compiled Murray’s Hand-Book for

Central Italy, or any other competent authorities, what this grotesquely startling piece of painter’s work can possibly be, I am answered that it is actually intended to represent the unimaginably awful spectacle of the Last Judgment! And I am further informed that, estimated by the critical tests applied to it by these said competent authorities, the picture is pronounced to be a roaster-piece of grandeur and sublimity. I can see neither the one nor the other in it—but then the criterion of grandeur and sublimity in Art, adopted by the competent authorities, is altogether beyond my comprehension.

As a last recourse, I resolve to look a little closer at this celebrated work, and to try if I can get at any fair estimate of it by employing such plain, straightforward, uncritical tests, as will do for me and for everybody.

Here is a fresco, which aspires to represent the most impressive of all Christian subjects: it is painted on the wall of a

Christian church, by a man belonging to a Christian community—what evidences of religious feeling has it to shew me? I look at the lower part of the composition first, and see—a combination of the orthodox nursery notion of the devil with the Heathen idea of the conveyance to the infernal regions, in the shape of a horned and tailed ferryman giving condemned souls a cast across a river!

Let me try and discover next what evidences of extraordinary intellectual ability the picture presents. I look up towards the 122 top now, by way of a change, and I find Michael Angelo’s conception of the entrance of a martyr into the kingdom of Heaven, displayed before me in the shape of a flayed man, presenting his own skin, as a sort of credential, to the hideous figure with the threatening hand— which I will not, even in writing, identify with the name of Our

Saviour. Elsewhere, I see nothing but unnatural distortion and hope­ less confusion; fighting figures, tearing figures, tumbling figures, kicking figures; and, to crown all, a caricatured portrait, with a pair of ass's ears, of a certain Messer Biagio of Sienna, who had the sense and courage, when the Last Judgment was first shown on comple­ tion, to protest against every figure in it being painted stark- naked.

I see such things as these, and. many more equally preposterous, which it is not worth while to mention. All other people with eyes in their heads see them, too. They are actual matters of fact, not debateable matters of taste. But I am not—on that account—justified, nor is any other uncritical person justified, in saying a word against the picture. It may palpably outrage all the religious proprieties of the subject; but, then, it is full of "fine foreshortening," and therefore we uncritical people must hold our tongues. It may violate just as plainly all the intellectual proprieties, counting from the flayed man with his skin in his hand, at the top, to Messer Biagio of Sienna with his ass’s ears, at the bottom; but, then, it exhibits

"masterly anatomical detail," and therefore we uncritical spectators must hold our tongues. It may strike us forcibly that, if people are to be painted at all, as in this picture, rising out of their 123

graves in their own bodies as they lived, it is surely important

(to say nothing of giving them the benefit of the shrouds in which

they were buried) to represent them as having the usual general

proportions of human beings. But Sir Joshua Reynolds interposes

critically, and tells us the figures on the wall and ceiling of the

Sistine Chapel are sublime, because they don’t remind us of our

own species. Why should they not remind us of our own species?

Because they are prophets, sibyls, and such like, cries the chorus

of critics indignantly. And what then? If I had been on intimate

terms with Jeremiah, or if I had been the ancient king to whom the

sibyl brought the mysterious books, would not my friend in the one case, and the messenger in the other, have appeared before me bearing the ordinary proportions and exhibiting the usual appearance

of my own species? Does not Sacred History inform me that the prophet was a Man, and does not Profane History describe the sibyl as an Old Woman? Is old age never venerable and striking in real life?—But I am uttering heresies, I am mutinously summoning reason and common sense to help me in estimating an Old Master. This will never do: I had better follow the example of all the travellers I see about me, by turning away in despair, and leaving the Last

Judgment to the critics and connoisseurs.

Having thus discovered that one master-piece of High Art does not address itself to me, and to the large majority whom I represent, let me go next to the Vatican, and see how the second master-piece (the Transfiguration by Raphael,) can vindicate its 124 magnificent reputation among critics and connoisseurs. This picture

I approach under the advantage of knowing, beforehand, that I must make certain allowances for minor defects in it, which are recognised even by the learned authorities themselves, I am indeed prepared to be disappointed, at the outset, because I have been prepared by an artist friend to make allowances:

First, for defects of colour, which spoil the general effect of the picture on the spectator; all the lights being lividly tinged with green, and all the shadows being grimly hardened with black.

This mischief is said to have been worked by the tricks of French cleaners and restorers, who have so fatally tampered with the whole surface, that Raphael's original colouring must be given up as lost.

Rather a considerable loss, this, to begin with; but not Raphael’s fault. Therefore, let it by no means depreciate the picture in my estimation.

Secondly, I have to make allowances for the introduction of two Roman Catholic Saints (St. Julian and St. Lawrence), represented by the painted as being actually present at the Transfiguration, in order to please Cardinal de' Medici, for whom the picture was painted.

This is Raphael’s fault. This sets him forth in the rather anomalous character of a great painter with no respect for his art. I have some doubts about him, after that,—doubts which my critical friends might possibly share if Raphael were only a modern painter.

Thirdly, I have to make allowances for the scene of the

Transfiguration on the high mountain, and the scene of the inability 125

,of the disciples to cure the boy possessed with a devil, being

represented, without the slightest division, one at the top and

the other at the bottom of the same canvas,—both events thus

appearing to be connected by happening in the same place within

view of each other, when we know very well that they were only

connected by happening at the same time. Also, when I see some of

the disciples painted in the act of pointing up to the Transfigura­

tion, the mountain itself being the background against which they

stand, I am to remember (though the whole of the rest of the picture

is most absolutely and unflinchingly literal in treatment) that

here Raphael has suddenly broken out into allegory, and desires to

indicate by the pointing hands of the disciples that it is the duty

of the afflicted to look to Heaven for relief in their calamities.

Having made all these rather important allowances, I may now look

impartially at the upper half of this famous composition.

I find myself looking away again very soon indeed. It may be that three figures clothed in gracefully fluttering drapery,

and dancing at symmetrically exact distances from each other in the air, represent such an unearthly spectacle as that of the Trans­ figuration to the satisfaction of great judges of art. I can also

imagine that some few select persons may be able to look at the top of the high mountain, as represented in the picture, without feeling their gravity in the smallest degree endangered by seeing that the ugly knob of ground on which the disciples are lying prostrate, is barely big enough to hold them, and most certainly 126 would not hold them if they all moved briskly on it together. These things are matters of taste, on which I have the misfortune to differ with the connoisseurs. Not feeling bold enough to venture on defending myself against the masters who are teaching me to appreciate High Art, I can only look away from the upper part of the picture as quickly as possible, and try if I can derive any useful or pleasant impressions from the lower half of the composition, in which no supernatural event is depicted, and which it is therefore prefectly justifiable to judge by referring it to the standard of dramatic truth, or, in one word, of Nature. As for this portion of the picture, I can hardly believe my eyes when I first look at it.

Excepting the convulsed face of the boy, and a certain hard eagerness in the look of the man who is holding him, all the other faces display a stony inexpressiveness, which, when I think of the great name of Raphael in connection with what I see, fairly amazes me.

I look down incredulously at my guide-book. YesI there is indeed the critical authority of Lanzi quoted for my benefit. Lanzi tells me in plain terms that I behold represented in the picture before me

"the most pathetic story Raphael ever conceived," and refers, in proof of it, to the "compassion evinced by the apostles." I look attentively at them all, and behold an assembly of hard-featured, bearded men, standing, sitting, and gesticulating, in conventional academic attitudes; their faces not expressing naturally, not even affecting to express artificially, compassion for the suffering boy, humility at their own incapability to relieve, him, or any other human 127 emotion likely to be suggested by the situation in which they are placed. I find it still more dismaying to look next at the figure of a brawny woman, with her back to the spectator, entreating the help of the apostles theatrically on one knee, with her insensible classical profile turned in one direction, and both her muscular arms stretched out in the other; it is still more dismaying to look at such a figure as this, and then to be gravely told by Lanzi that it exhibits "the affliction of a beautiful and interesting female."

I observe, on entering the room in which the Transfiguration is placed, as I have previously observed on entering the Sistine Chapel, groups of intelligent people before the picture consulting their guide-books—looking attentively at the work of High Art which they are ordered to admire-—trying hard to admire it—then, with dismay in their faces, looking round at each other, shutting up their books, and retreating from High Art in despair. I observe these groups for a little while, and I end in following their example. We members of the general public may admire Hamlet and Don Giovanni, honestly, along with the critics, but the two sublimest pictures (according to the learned authorities) which the world has yet beheld, appeal to none of us; and we leave them, altogether discouraged on the subject of Art for the future. From that time forth we look at pictures with a fatal self-d istrust. Some of us recklessly take our opinions from others; some of us cautiously keep our own opinions to ourselves; and some of us indolently abstain from having anything to do with an opinion at all. 128

Is this exaggerated? Have I misrepresented the facts in the

example I have quoted of obstructive criticism on Art, and of its discouraging effects on the public mind? Let the doubting reader, by

all means, judge for himself. Let him refer to any recognised

authority he pleases, and he will find that the two pictures of which

I have been writing are critically and officially considered, to this day, as the two masterworks of the highest school of painting.

Having ascertained that, let him next, if possible, procure a sight

of some print or small copy from any part of either picture (there is a copy of the whole of the Transfiguration in the Gallery at the

Crystal Palace), and practically test the truth of what I have said.

Or, in the event of his not choosing to take that trouble, let him ask any unprofessional and uncritical friend who has seen the picture themselves—and the more intelligent and unprejudiced that friend, the better for my purpose—what the effect on him was of The Last

Judgment, or The Transfiguration. If I can only be assured of the sincerity of the witness, I shall not be afraid of the result of the examination.

Other readers who have visited the Sistine Chapel and the

Vatican can testify for themselves (but, few of them will—I know them!) whether I have misrepresented their impressions or not. To that part of my audience I have nothing to say, except that I beg them not to believe that I am a heretic in relation to all works by all old masters, because I have spoken out about the Last Judgment and the Transfiguration. I am not blind, I hope, to the merits of 129 any picture, provided it will bear honest investigation on uncritical principles. I have seen sueh exceptional works by ones and twos, amid many hundreds of utterly worthless canvasses with undeservedly famous names attached to them, in Italy and elsewhere. My valet de place has not pointed them out to me; my guide-book, which criticises according to authority, has not recommended me to look at them, except in very rare cases indeed. I discovered them for myself, and others may discover them as readily as I did, if they will only take their minds out of leading-strings when they enter a gallery, and challenge a picture boldly to do its duty by explaining its own merits to them without the assistance of an interpreter. If I give that simple receipt for the finding out and enjoying of good pictures, I need give no more. It is no part of my object to attempt to impose my own tastes and preferences on others. I want'—if I maybe allowed, to repeat my motives once more in the plainest terms—to do all I can to shake the influence of authority in matters of Art, because I see that authority standing drearily and persistently aloof from all popular sympathy; because I see it keeping pictures and the people apart; because I find it setting up as masterpieces, two of the worst of many palpably bad and barbarous works of past times; and lastly, because I find it purchasing pictures for the National Gallery of

England, for which, in nine cases out of ten, the nation has no concern or care, which have no merits but technical merits, and which have not the last and lowest recommendation of winning general approval even among the critics and connoisseurs themselves. The 130

controversy described at the beginning of this article is, as all

readers of the public journals know, not the only controversy that

has arisen of late years, when Old Masters have been added to the

gallery, or, in other words, when the national picture-money has

been spent for the confusion of the nation.

And what remedy against this? I say at the end, as I said

at the beginning, the remedy is to judge for ourselves, and to

express our opinions, privately and publicly, on every possible

occasion, without hesitation, without compromise, without reference

to any precedents whatever. Public opinion has had its victories in

other matters, and may yet have its victory in matters of Art. We,

the people, have a gallery that is called ours; let us do our best

to have it filled for the future with pictures (no matter when or by whom painted), that we can get some honest enjoyment and benefit

from. Let us, in Parliament and out of it, before dinner and after dinner, in the presence of big-wigs just as coolly as out of the presence of big-wigs, say plainly once for all that the sort of

High Art which is professedly bought for us, and which does actually

address itself to nobody but painters, critics, and connoisseurs, is not High Art at all, but the lowest of the Low: because it is the narrowest as to its sphere of action, and the most scantily furnished as to its means of doing good. We shall shock the connoisseurs

(especially the elderly ones) dreadfully by taking this course; we shall get indignantly reprimanded by the critics, and flatly contra­ dicted by the lecturers; but we shall also, sooner or later, get a 131

collection of pictures bought for us that we, mere mankind, can

appreciate and understand. It may be a revolutionary sentiment, but I think that the.carrying out of this reform (as well as of a

few others) is a part of the national business which the people of

England have got to do for themselves, and in which no big-wig whomsoever will assist them. There is a great deal of social litter

accumulating about us; suppose, when we start the business of setting

things to rights, that we try the new broom gently at first, by sweeping away a little High Art, and having the temerity to form

our own opinions? 132

"Dramatic Grub Street - Explored in Two Letters," Household Words, XVII (March 6, 1858), 265-70.

Letter the First, From Mr. Reader to Mr. Author.

My Dear Sir,—I am sufficiently well-educated, and sufficiently

refined in my tastes and habits, to be a member of the large class of

persons usually honoured by literary courtesy with the title of the

Intelligent Public, In the interests of the order to which I belong,

I have a little complaint to make against the managers of our theatres,

and a question to put afterwards, which you, as a literary man, will,

I have no doubt, be both able and willing to answer.

For some months past, I have been proposing to address you on

the subject of these lines. But, on reflection, I thought it best

to wait until the Festival Performances in celebration of the marriage

of the Princess Royal had especially directed our attention to the

English Drama. It was not my good fortune to be present at any of

those performances; but I read the criticisms on them in the news­ papers with great attention. I found in most of the reviews a patri­ otic anxiety that our illustrious foreign visitors should derive a favourable impression of the English Drama, followed by a patriotic disapproval of certain imperfections in the representation of the plays, which threatened injury, in a dramatic point of view, to the honour of the nation, I have nothing to say on this point, not having been among the audience in the theatre. But, I have to express some surprise that the critics, while thinking of the dramatic credit of the nation, should have passed over the choice of the plays in silence, 133

and merely have alluded to the manner of their representation.

Supposing any of our foreign visitors to have taken an inter­

est in the matter, I should not be at all surprised to hear that one

of them had expressed himself to the other, on the conclusion of the

Festival Performances, in the following manner:—

"Illustrious Friend, we have been treated to the play (and our good suppers afterwards) for four nights. Three of those nights have been given to the English, to show us what state their dramatic art is in. One of the nights I understand. It showed us what this nation can do in the musical department of the drama. We had an opera written by a living Briton, in the present time. Good, so far. Another of those nights, I also understand. We had Shakspere, It was right to represent the greatest dramatic- poet of the world, in the country that gave him birth. But the other night, also devoted to the English

Drama, what on earth does it mean? We, as foreigners, having seen

Shakspere, next ask naturally what can Shakspere*s dramatic brethren of the' present day do for the theatre of their own time? We have seen the English Drama of the past, what is the English Drama of the present? Vie ask that; and the answer is a play written seventy or eighty years ago, by a great wit whose jokes, speeches, and debts have become a part of the history of England. What! has there been no man, then, who has written an original English play, since the time of The Rivals? If we ask what this ration is doing now in the literature of fiction, will they present to us Goldsmith, Sterne,

Smollett, Fielding? If we ask for their modern historians, will they 134

raise the ghosts of Hume and Gibbon? What does it mean? There is

living literature of a genuine sort in the English libraries of the

present time,—is there no living literature of a genuine sort in the

English theatre of the present time also?"

I can quite understand one of our foreign visitors putting

these questions; but I cannot at all imagine how we could contrive

to give them a creditable and satisfactory answer. Speaking as one

of the English public, I am not only puzzled, as the foreigners might

be, but dissatisfied as well, I can get good English poems, histories,

biographies, novels, essays, travels, criticisms, all of the present

time. Why can I not get good English dramas of the present time as

well?

Say, I am a Frenchman, fond of the imaginative literature of

my country, well-read in all the best specimens of it,--I mean, best

in a literary point of view, for I am not touching moral questions z now. When I shut up Balzac, Victor Hugo, Dumas, and Soulie, and go

to the theatre, what do I find? Balzac, Victor Hugo, Dumas, and

Soulie again. The men who have been interesting and amusing me in

my armchair, interesting and amusing me once more in my stall. The

men who can really invent and observe for the reader, inventing and

observing for the spectator also. What is the necessary consequence?

The literary standard of the stage is raised; and the dramatist by

profession must be as clever a man, in his way, as good an inventor, as correct a writer, as the novelist. And what, in my case, follows that consequence? Clearly this: the managers of theatres get as much 135

of my money at night, as the publishers of books get in the day.

Do the managers get as much from me in England? By no manner

of means. For they hardly ever condescend to address me, I get up

from reading the best works of our best living writers and go to the

theatre, here. What do I see? The play that I have seen before in

Fhris. This nay do very well for my servant, who does not understand

French, or for my tradesman, who has never had time to go to Paris,—

but it is only showing me an old figure in a foreign dress, which

does not become it like its native costume. But, perhaps, our dramatic

entertainment is not a play adapted from the French Drama. Perhaps,

it is something English—a Burlesque. Delightful, I have no doubt,

to a fast young farmer from the country, or to a convivial lawyer’s

clerk, who has never read anything but a newspaper in his life. But

is it satisfactory to me? It is, if I want to go and see the Drama

satirised. But I go to enjoy a new play—and I am rewarded by see­

ing all my favourite ideas and characters in some old play, ridiculed.

This, like the adapted dram, is the sort of entertainment I do not want.

I read at home David Copperfield, The Newcoraes, Jane Eyre, and many more original stories, by many more original authors, that delight me. I go to the theatre, and naturally want original stories by original authors, which will also delight me there. Do I get what I ask for? Yes, if I want to see an old play over again. But, if I want a new play? Why, then I must have the French adaptation, or the Burlesque. The publisher can understand that there are people 136

among his customers who possess cultivated tastes, and can cater for

them accordingly, when they ask for something new. The manager, in

the same case, recognises no difference between me and my servant.

My footman goes to see the play-actors, and cares very little what

they perform in. If my taste is not his taste, we may part at the

theatre door,—he goes in, and I go home. It may be said, Why is my

footman’s taste not to be provided for? Byway of answering that

question, I will ask another:—Why is my footman not to have the

chance of improving his taste, and making it as good as mine?

The case between the two countries seems to stand thus, then:—

In France, the most eminent literary men of the period write, as a matter of course, for the stage, as well as for the library table; and, in France, the theatre is the luxury of all classes. In England,

the most eminent literary men write for the library table alone; and, in England, the theatre is the luxury of the illiterate classes—the house of call where the ignorance of the country assembles in high force, where the intelligence of the country is miserably represented by a minority that is not worth counting. What is the reason of this?

Why has our modern stage no modern literature?

There is the question with which I threatened you. To what do you attribute the present shameful dearth of stage literature? To the dearth of good aetors?--or, if not to that, to what other cause?

Of one thing I am certain, that there is no want of a large and a ready audience for original English plays, possessing genuine dramatic merit, and appealing, as forcibly as our best novels do, to the tastes, 137

the interests, and the sympathies of our own time. You, who have had some experience of society, know as well as I do, that there is

in this country a very large class of persons whose minds are stiffened by no Puritanical scruples, whose circumstances in the world are easy, whose time is at their own disposal, who are the very people to make a good audience and a paying audience at a theatre, and who yet, hardly ever darken theatrical doors more than two or three times in a year. You know this; and you know also that the systematic neglect of the theatre in these people, has been forced on them, in the first instance, by the shock inflicted on their good sense by nine-tenths of the so-called new entertainments which are offered to them. I am not speaking now of gorgeous scenic revivals of old plays--for which

I have a great respect, because they offer to sensible people the only decent substitute for genuine dramatic novelty to be met with at the present time. I am referring to the "new entertainments" which are, in the vast majority of cases, second-hand entertainments to every man in the theatre who is familiar with the French writers—or insufferably coarse entertainments to every man who has elevated his taste by making himself acquainted -with the best modern literatxire of his own land. Let my servant, let my small tradesman, let the fast young farmers and lawyers’ clerks, be all catered fori But surely, if they have their theatre, I, and my large class, ought to have our theatre too? The fast young farmer has his dramatists, just as he has his novelists in the penny journals. We, on our side, have got our great novelists (whose works the fast young farmer does not 138

read);—why, I ask again, are we not to have our great dramatists as

well?

With high esteem, yours, my dear Sir, A. Reader.

Letter the Second. From Mr. Author to Mr. Reader.

My Dear Sir,—I thoroughly understand your complaint, and I

think I can answer your question. My reply will probably a little

astonish you--for I mean to speak the plain truth boldly. The public

ought to know the real state of the case, as regards the present

position of the English stage towards English Literature, for the

public alone can work the needful reform.

You ask, if I attribute the present dearth of stage literature

to the dearth of good actors? I reply to that in the negative. When

the good literature comes, the good actors will come also, where they

are'wanted. In many branches of the theatrical art they are not

wanted. We have as good living actors among us now as ever trod the

stage. And we should have more if dramatic literature called for

more. It is literature that makes the actor—not the actor that makes

literature, I could name men to you, now on the stage, whose advance

in their profession they owe entirely to the rare opportunities, which

the occasional appearance of a genuinely good play has afforded to

them, of stepping out—men whose sense of the picturesque and the natural in their art, lay dormant, until the pen of the writer woke 139

it into action. Show me a school of dramatists, and I will show you

a school of actors soon afterwards—as surely as the effect follows

the cause.

• You have spoken of France. I will now speak of France also;

for the literary comparison with our neighbours is as applicable to

the main point of my letter as it was to the main point of yours.

Suppose me to be a French novelist. If I am a successful man, my work has a certain market value at the publishers. So far my

case is the same if I am an English novelist—but there the analogy stops. In France, the manager of the theatre can compete with the publisher for the purchase of any new idea that I have to sell. In

France, the market value of my new play is as high, or higher, than the market value of my new novel. If I can work well for the theatre in France, I am just as sure of being able to pay my butcher, my baker, my rent and taxes, as I am when I work well for the publisher.

Remember, I am not now writing of French theatres which have assis­ tance' from the Government, but of French theatres which depend, as our theatres do, entirely on the public. Any one of those theatres will give me as much, I repeat, for the toil of my brains, on their behalf, as the publisher will give for the toil of my brains on his.

Now, so far is this from being the case in England, that it is a fact perfectly well known to every literary man in the country, that, while the remuneration for every other species of literature has enormously increased in the last hundred years, the remuneration for dramatic writing has steadily decreased, to such a minimum of pecuni­ 140

ary recognition as to make.it impossible for a man who lives by the

successful use of his pen, as a writer of books, to alter the nature

of his literary practice, and live, or nearly live, in comfortable

circumstances, by the use of his pen, as a writer of plays. It is

time that this fact was generally known, to justify successful living

authors for their apparent neglect of one of the highest branches

of their Art, I tell you, in plain terms, that I could only write a

play for the English stage-—a successful play, mind—-by consenting

to what would be, in my case, and even more so in the cases of my more successful brethren, a serious pecuniary sacrifice.

Let me make the meanness of the remuneration for stage-writing in our day, as compared with what that remuneration was in past times,

clear to your mind by one or two examples. Rather more than a hun­ dred years ago, Doctor Johnson wrote a very bad play called Irene, which proved a total failure on representation, and which tottered rather than "ran," for just nine nights, to wretched houses. Exclud­ ing his literary copyright of a hundred pounds, the Doctor’s dramatic profit on a play that was a failure—remember that!—amounted to one hundred and ninety-five pounds, being just forty-five pounds more than the remuneration now paid, to my certain knowledge, for many a play within the last five years, which has had a successful run of sixty, and, in some cases, even of a hundred nights!

I can imagine your amazement at reading this—but I can also assure you that any higher rate of remuneration is exceptional, Let me, however, give the managers the benefit of the exception. Some­ 141

times two hundred pounds have been paid, within the last five years,

for a play; and, on one or two rare occasions, three hundred. If

Shakspere came to life again, and took Macbeth to an English theatre,

in this year, eighteen hundred and fifty-eight, that is the highest

market remuneration he could get for it. You are to understand that

this miserable decline in the money-reward held out to dramatic lit­

erature is peculiar to our own day. Without going back again so long

as a century—without going back farther than the time of George

Colman, the younger—I may remind you that the Comedy of John Bull

brought the author twelve hundred pounds. Since then, six or seven

hundred pounds have been paid for a new play; and, later yet, five

hundred pounds. We have now got to three hundred pounds, as the

exception, and to one hundred and fifty, as the rule. I ami speaking,

remember, of plays in not less than three acts, which are, or are

supposed to be, original—of plays which run from sixty to a hundred

nights, and which put their bread (buttered thickly on both sides)

into the mouths of actors and managers. As to the remuneration for

ordinary translations from the French, I would rather not mention what that is. And, indeed, there is no need I should do so. Vie are

talking of the stage in its present relation to English literature.

Suppose I wrote for it, as some of my friends suggest I should; and

suppose I could produce one thoroughly original play, with a story

of my own sole invention, with characters of my own sole creation,

every year. The utmost annual income the English stage would, at present prices, pay me, after exhausting my brains in its service, 142

would, be three hundred pounds!

I use the expression "exhausting my brains," advisedly. For

a man who produces a new work, every year, which has any real value

and completeness as a work of literary Art, does, let him be who he

may, for a time, exhaust his brain by the process, and leave it sorely

in need of an after-period of absolute repose. Three hundred a-year,

therefore, is the utmost that a fertile original author can expect

to get by the stage, at present market-rates of remuneration.

Such is now the position of the dramatic writer—a special man, with a special faculty. What is now the position of the dramatic

performer, when he happens to be a special man, with a special fac­ ulty also? Is his income three hundred a-year? Is his manager’s income three hundred a-year? The popular actors of the time when

Colman got his twelve hundred pounds would be struck dumb with amaze­ ment, if they saw what salaries their successors are getting now. If stage remuneration has decreased sordidly in our time for authorship, it has increased splendidly for actorship. When a manager tells me now that his theatre cannot afford to pay me half or a quarter as much for my idea in the form of a play, as I can get for it in the form of a novel—or as I could have got for it in Colman’s time—he really means that he and his actors take a great deal more now from the nightly receipts of the theatres than they ever thought of taking in the time of John Bull. When the actors’ profits from the theatre are largely increased, somebody else’s profits from the same theatre must be decreased. That somebody else is the dramatic author. There 143

you have the real secret of the mean rate at which the English stage

now estimates the assistance of English Literature.

There are persons whose interest it may be to deny this; and who will deny it. It is not a question of assertion or denial, but a question of figures. How much per week did a popular actor get in

Colman’s time? How much per week does a popular actor get now? The biographies of dead players will answer the first question. And the managers’ books, for the past ten or fifteen years, will answer the

second. I must not give offence by comparisons between living and dead men—I must not enter into details, because they would lead me too near to the private affairs of other people. But I tell you again, that the remuneration for good acting has immensely increased in our time, and I am not afraid of having that assertion contradicted by proofs.

I know it nay be said that, in quoting Colman’s twelve hundred pounds, I have quoted an exceptional instance. Perfectly true. But the admission strengthens my case, for it sets results in this form:

In Colman’s time, the exceptional price was twelve hundred pounds; in ours it is three hundred. Let us go Into particulars, and see whether facts and figures justify the extraordinary disproportion between the reward which theatrical success brought to the author at the beginning of the present century, and the reward which it brings now,

Colman’s comedy of John Bull, was produced at Covent Garden

Theatre in the year eighteen hundred and three. The average receipts 144

taken at the doors during the run of the play, were four hundred and

seventy pounds, per night, John Bull ran forty-seven nights. Multi­

ply four hundred and seventy pounds by forty-seven nights, and the

gross receipts of the theatre, during the time of John Bull, amount,

in round numbers, to twenty-two thousand pounds. A prodigious sum,

produced by an exceptional dramatic success. Exceptional remunera­

tion to author, twelve hundred poxinds.

Now for the'present time. A remarkably successful play runs

one hundred nights at the present day. But we must set against that

fact in the author’s favour, two facts in the manager's favor. Ex­

cepting Drury lane, all our theatres are smaller than the Covent

Garden Theatre of Colman’s time; and, in every case, Drury Lane included, our prices of admission are much lower. We will say, there­

fore, that while an unusually successful modern play runs its hundred nights, the theatre takes at the doors only one hxindred and ten pounds per night. Any person conversant with theatrical natters would probably tell you that one hundred and fifty pounds per night would be nearer the average of the money-taken at the doors of all our theatres—large and small-—during the run of a particularly successful play. However, we will err on the right side; we will exaggerate the poverty-stricken condition of starving actors and managers in the present day; and we will say that our modern play which is a great "hit," runs one hundred nights to houses which take one hundred and ten pounds per night at the doors. Multiply one hundred and ten pounds by one hxindred nights, and the product is eleven thousand 145

pounds. Exactly half of what the theatre got in the time of John

Bull. Does the successful author meet with the same justice now, which he met with in Colman’s time?—in other words, does he get

half of what Colman got, for bringing to the theatre half what Colman brought? No; for then he would get six hundred pounds as his excep­

tional remuneration, instead of the miserable half-price of three hundred which is now offered to him. Here are the results:

"1803,—Poor starving theatre gets 22,000. Amazingly successful author gets 1200. "I858.—Poor starving theatre gets 11,000. Amazingly successful author gets 3^0.

Where has that missing three hundred pounds got to? It has got into the managers' and actors’ pockets.

It is useless to attempt a defence of the present system by telling me that a different plan of remunerating the dramatic author was adopted in former times, and that a different plan is also prac­ tised on the French stage. I am not discussing which plan is best, or which plan is worst. I am only dealing with the plain fact, that the present stage-estimate of the author is barbarously low—-an esti­ mate which men who had any value for literature, any idea of its importance, any artist-like sympathy with its great difficulties, and its great achievements, would be ashamed to make. I prove that fact by reference to the proceedings of a better past time; and I leave the means of effecting a reform to those who are bound in common honour and common justice to make the reform. It is not my business to re-adjust the commercial machinery of theatres; I don’t sit in the treasury, and handle the strings of the money-bags, I 146

say that the present system is a base one towards literature, and that

the history of the past, and the experience of the present, prove it

to be so. All the reasoning in the world which tries to convince us

that a wrong is necessary, will not succeed in proving that wrong to

be right.

Having now established the existence of the abuse, it is easy

enough to get on to the consequences that have arisen from it. At

the present low rate of remuneration, a man of ability wastes his

powers if he writes for the stage. There are men still in existence, who occasionally write for it, for the love and honour of their Art.

Once, perhaps, in two or three years, one of these devoted men will

try single-handed to dissipate the dense dramatic fog that hangs over

the stage and the audience. For the brief allotted space of time, the one toiling hand lets in. a little light, unthanked by the actors, unaided by the critics, unnoticed by the audience. The time expires— the fog gathers back—the toiling hand disappears. Sometimes it returns once more bravely to the hard, hopeless work: and out of all the hundreds whom it has tried to enlighten, there shall not be one who is grateful enough to know it again.

These exceptional men—too few, too scattered, too personally unimportant in the republic of letters, to have any strong or lasting influence—are not the professed dramatists of our times. These are not the writers who make so much as a clerk’s income out of the stage.

The few men of practical ability who now write for the English Theatre, are men of the world, who know that they are throwing away their tai- 147

ents if they take the trouble to invent, for an average remuneration

of one hundred and fifty pounds. The well-paid Frenchman supplies

them with a story and characters ready made. The Original Adaptation is rattled off in a week: and the dramatic author beats the clerk after all, by getting so much more money for so much less manual ex­ ercise in the shape of writing. Below this clever tactician, who foils the theatre with its own weapons, come the rank-and-file of hack-writers, who work still more cheaply, and give still less (I am rejoiced to say) for the money. The stage results of this sort of authorship, as you have said, virtually drive the intelligent classes out of the theatre. Half a century since, the prosperity of the mana­ ger’s treasury would have suffered in consequence. But the increase of wealth and population, and the railway connection between London and the country, more than supply in quantity what audiences have lost in quality. Not only does the manager lose nothing in the way of profit—he absolutely gains by getting a vast nightly majority into his theatre, whose ignorant insensibility nothing can shock.

Let him cast what garbage he pleases before them, the unquestioning mouths of his audience open, and snap at it. I am sorry and ashamed to write in this way of any assemblage of my own countrymen; but a large experience of theatres forces me to confess that I am writing the truth. If you want to find out who the people are who know noth­ ing whatever, even by hearsay, of the progress of the literature of their own time—who have caught no chance vestige of any one of the ideas which are floating about before their very eyes—who are, to 148

all social intents and purposes, as far behind the age they live in,

as any people out of a lunatic asylum can be--go to a theatre, and

be very careful, in doing so, to pick out the most popular perform­

ance of the day. The actors themselves, when they are men of any

intelligence, are thoroughly aware of the utter incapacity of the

tribunal which is supposed to judge them. Not very long ago, an

actor, standing deservedly in the front rank of his profession, hap­

pened to play even more admirably than usual in a certain new part.

Meeting him soon afterwards, I offered him my mite of praise in all

sincerity. "Yes," was his reply. "I know that I act my very best

in that part, for I hardly get a hand of applause in it through the

whole evening." Such is the condition to which the dearth of good

literature has now reduced the audiences of English theatres—even

in the estimation of the men who act before them.

And what is to remedy this? Nothing can remedy it but a change

for the better in the audiences, I have good hope that this change

is slowly, very slowly, beginning. "When things are at the worst

they are sure to mend," I really think that, in dramatic matters,

they have been at the worst; and I have therefore some belief that

the next turn of Fortune’s wheel nay be in our favour. In certain theatres, I fancy I notice already symptoms of a slight additional sprinkling of intelligence among the audiences. If I am right, if this sprinkling increases, if the few people who have brains in their ■ heads will express themselves boldly, if those who are fit to lead the opinion of their neighbours will resolutely make the attempt to 149

lead it, instead of indolently wrapping themselves up in their own

contempt—then there may be a creditable dramatic future yet in store

for the countrymen of Shakspere, perhaps we iray yet live to see the

day when managers will be forced to seek out the writers who are

really setting their mark on the literature of the age—when "starva­

tion prices" shall have given place to the fair remuneration of a

past period—and when the prompter shall have his share with the pub­

lisher in the best work that can be done for him by the best writers

of the time.

Meanwhile, there is a large audience of intelligent people, with plenty of money in their pockets, waiting for a theatre to go

to. Supposing that such an amazing moral portent should ever appear in the English firmament as a theatrical speculator who can actually

claim some slight acquaintance with contemporary literature; and sup­ posing that unparalleled man to be smitten with a sudden desire to ascertain what the circulation actually is of serial publications and successful novels which address the educated classes; I think I nay safely predict the consequences that would follow, as soon as our ideal manager had received his information and recovered from his astonishment. London would be startled, one fine morning, by finding a new theatre opened. Names that are now well known on title- pages only, would then appear on play-bills also; and tens of thou­ sands of readers, who now pass the theatre-door with indifference, would be turned into tens of thousands of play-goers also. What a cry of astonishment would be heard thereupon in the remotest fast­ 150

nesses of old. theatrical London! "Merciful Heaven! There is a large

public, after all, for well-paid original plays, as well as for well-

paid original books. And a man has turned up, at last, of our own managerial order, who has absolutely found it out, "

Although I have by no means exhausted the subject, I have written enough to answer your letter—enough also, I trust, to suggest some little glimmerings of hope, when you think of the future of the

English drama. As for the present, perhaps the best way will be to look at it as little as possible. When any intelligent foreigner innocently questions you on the subject of our modern drama, I think you will take the best way out of the difficulty if you ask him, with all possible politeness, to—wait for an answer.

With true regard, yours, my dear Sir,

A, N. Author. 151

"A Breach of British Privilege," Household Words, XIX (March 19, 1859), 361-4.

Sir,—-I occasionally see your journal at the houses of my

friends, and I am told that it occupies a highly influential and

prominent position among the periodicals of the present time. For

my own part, I carefully abstained from subscribing to you, when you

started, I didn’t like the look of you, then; and I don’t like the

look of you, now. You are not English to the back-bone. You have

more than once set up the foreigners—the jabbering, unwashed, un­

shaved foreigners, who live on kickshaws and sour wine—as examples

to us. I doubt whether you really believe that one Englishman is

equal to two Frenchmen, and six of any other nation, I doubt whether

you know your Rule Britannia as you ought, and whether you sincerely

feel that we are the "dread and envy" of every foreign community on

the face of the earth. No, sir, you won't do for me—it may be dis­ agreeable to you to know it--but you won’t.

Why do I write to you, then? For three reasons. First,- and

foremost, to see whether you can be fair enough to both sides to

print something which is not written by one of your own set. Secondly,

to perform an entirely new literary feat, in the character of corres­

pondent to a journal, by writing a letter to an Editor which doesn’t begin by flattering him. Thirdly, and lastly, to show you the results to which your precious modern principles have led, and will continue

to lead, by quoting the last new example of the invasion of the execrable foreign element, as now exhibited every night, not far from 152

you, at the West End of the Strand. There are my reasons; and here

is my letter. Listen to the first, if you can. Print the last,if

you dare.

I have been, for some time, prepared for a great deal in the

■way of desertion of national principle. When beards (which you

recommended) began to grow on British faces—when shoeblacks (whom you encouraged) began to ply in British streets—when the word

"entree" appeared among the chops and steaks of British taverns; and when foreign opera companies could sing at playhouse prices on the

British stage, and not be hooted off it—I was proof, as I fondly imagined, against any additional feeling of surprise at any additional foreign innovation. But, I was mistaken; and I don’t mind acknowl­ edging it. Much as I was prepared for, I was not prepared, sir, for

MR. BENJAMIN WEBSTER’S NEW ADELPHI THEATRE.

I shall probably be very severe in the course of this letter; but I will endeavour to be reasonable and just at the same time. In writing of Mr. Webster’s Innovation (for in the good old English sense of the word it is not a Theatre at all), I will bear lightly on the architect, Mr. T. H. Wyatt. I will assume that when he re­ ceived his commission, it was saddled with certain conditions, which he was bound to fulfil, and did fulfil, as an honest man, I will even endeavour to write of Mr. Webster himself more in sorrow than in anger, when I come to the personal part of the subject, so far as he is concerned. First of all, however, I must take care to be general, before I become particular (there are people out of your 153 literary set, sir, who understand the art of writing, though they

seldom care to practise it)—I must establish my principle and state my case, using a new paragraph for the purpose, and making it a short one. You see I know all about it, although, I thank Heaven, I am not a literary man.

My principle is, That the English public does not want to be made comfortable when it goes to the Theatre; That this peculiarity marks the great distinction between a British audience and a French audience; Ard that a manager who gives to the modest Englishman, who has not asked for it, the comfortable seat which the arrogant French­ man has insisted on having long since, is a manager who gratuitously breaks down a grand social distinction between France and Great

Britain.

My case is, That Mr. Benjamin Webster has committed this grave patriotic offence at The New Adelphi Theatre.

Now let us be moderate—let us be philosophic—let us have this out logically by all manner of means. The English public does not want to be made comfortable when it goes to the Theatre. Is there any man in his senses who doubts this? Let him, in that case, remember the Old—yes, the fine, old, genuine, British Adelphi Theatre, now pulled down—and let him put his hand on his heart (as they did in the good old sterling comedies), and say whether he remembers a single comfortable place in the whole of that eminently ratioral edifice, ranging all over it from the floor to the ceiling? Let him say whether he remembers that Theatre as a scene of public protests 154

and riots in consequence of the exquisite uneasiness of every seat in

it, or as a scene of happy, crowded, cramped, perspiring placidity,

in which a British pit perched itself upon its native knife-boards,

with its sides squeezed, its knees jammed, and its back unsupported,

a spectacle of national discomfort and national contentment, such as

no other civilised city could show in any part of Europe? Nol not

If an English audience wanted to be made comfortable, the old Adelphi

Theatre could never have kept its doors open through a single season;

and certain other national—that is to say, universally uncomfortable—

theatres still in existence, would be shut up. Are they shut up?

Are they not, on the contrary, crowded every night? Is a murmur ever

heard from the contentedly-cramped audience? I promised you logic,

just now; and here you have it, I think, with a vengeance!

Having established my principle, and proved it by facts which no man can deny, I may now come down to details, and have it out persorally with Mr. Webster.

My first complaint is, that I am bewildered by this innovating management, in two ways, even before I take my seat inside the New

Adelphi at all. In the first place, I am not fined a shilling at the

Box Office, for the offence of wanting to engage a seat at the Theatre.

Why not, when other theatres continue to fine me with perfect impun­ ity? If I really resented such treatment, I should bring those other theatres to their senses by not going near them till they had removed their shilling tax. But I do nothing of the sort; I fay it uncom­ plainingly when I am asked for it. And here is Mr. Webster losing 155 money in the vain attempt to teach me, as a true-born Englishman,

not to let myself be taken in. And there are the other managers,

who know the public better, laughing at him in their sleeves, and

profiting daily by the good old system. Speaking as a nan of busi­

ness, I don’t mind acknowledging that this bewilders me to begin with.

Then again, when I go into the theatre, and pass the money-

takers, and enter the lobbies, what do I see? Women—on my word of

honour—quiet, civil, quick, neatly-dressed, attentive women, who

give me my playbill gratuitously, and show me to my place, and expect

nothing for it. Here is a pretty innovation! Women made useful in

England, in an occupation which they are especially well fitted to

follow! Women removed from those famous hearths and homes of ours,

which I always score with an approving line in pencil, when my favour­

ite authors present them to me in my favourite capital letters! What

next, I should like to know? An inoffensive Englishman, well acquain­

ted with the national customs, enters a theatre, after paying to go

in, keeping an extra shilling between his finger and thumb, to pay

again as usual—expects to meet a scowling male extortioner in frowsy

black who takes his bribe, as a matter of course, before he opens the

door—and confronts instead a pleasant little woman, who never so much as looks in the direction of the visitor’s waistcoat-pocket, and waits on him as civilly as if she were his own servant. Upon my life, you might have knocked me into my seat with a feather, when I first took it at the New Adelphi Theatre.

Wait, though-—I retract the word seat, as applied to Mr, Web- 156

ster's Orchestra Stalls. My idea—my rational English idea of a

stall-seat at a London theatre, implies something which is too narrow

and too high—something which slopes the wrong way, and lets me slide

down till my knees fit nicely into the edge of the bench before me—

something entirely unconnected with carpets below and footstools in

front—something, in short, which, in respect of its intense discom­

fort and wretchedness, is the exact reverse of ray seat at home. Do

I meet with this at the New Adelphi? I can hardly write it for

laughing; but I actually sit, in this deplorably un-English building,

in a real arm-chair, a luxurious private arm-chair—I can see the

stage without craning my head till I get a stiff neck—my neighbours

have room to pass, without squeezing me against my seat; and, to crown

all, instead of paying more for these foreign luxuries than I pay for

my national discomforts at my favourite national theatre, not a hun­

dred miles off, I am actually charged a shilling less! Most ridicu­

lous , is it not?

I stand up, and look about me. Why, here is an English Theatre,

from every part of which everybody can see the stage, I renark a dress-circle with as much room in it as there is in the stalls; with seats which can be raised for the convenience of passing and repassing; with special arrangements for hats, cloaks, and opera-glasses; with an open balcony in front, to show the bright colours of the ladies* dresses—and, as I live, with a row of private boxes rising behind it. Private boxes in England, with a front view of the stage— private boxes from which four people can see without two of them stand­ 157

ing up-—private boxes, price one pound—private boxes, price ten

shillings, even, if there are only two of us who want to go into

them! I think of my one-eleven-six, or my two pound two, and my

angular peep behind the scenes, and my bird’s-eye view of the actors’

heads, at my favourite national establishment; and look down at my

play-bill to collect my thoughts and to try and remember that I am

still in a place of public amusement. What do I see on the bill?

Odds frogs and capersI (as my favourite Acres would say) here is a

Frenchified notion of attending to the comforts of the common peoplel

Here are stalls again, with elbows and cushions, in the Gallery--yes|

Stalls, in the gallery of a British Theatre! Fancy the gods, the

common people who can only ray a shilling a-piece, sitting in their

stalls! Once show the lower orders as much attention as you show

their betters, and they will be behaving like their betters, and

there will be no hootings nor howlings, nor stampings, nor cat-calls,

and the character of the gallery will be lost for ever. What next,

Mr. Webster--I wonder what next?

I ask this question, but there is no need to do so. My eyes

are hardly withdrawn from a transmogrified gallery, before they fall

on a transmogrified pit. Where are the benches, the good old dingy

greasy rows of knife-boards? Gone--and in their places more stalls with elbows and cushions. Any increase in the price? Not a halfpen­

ny, Two shillings, in the old times, for sitting on a pit-plank, with your neighbour’s elbow in your stomach. Two shillings, in the

newtimes, for sitting in a pit-stall, with your neighbour’s elbow 158

where it ought to be. My clerk—my overpaid clerk, who has only

nine children and gets a hundred and twenty pounds a-year—can take

his wife and daughters to this anti-national theatre, without making

their backs ache: can put them in their places without any prelimin­

ary rushing and pushing; can seat them next to the fattest nan in

England, and can make sure that they won’t be squeezed. Squeezed,

did I say? What has become of a certain time-honoured female figure,

peculiar to an English pit? Where is our unparalleled insular female

nuisance, the fruit-woman, whom I saw the other night, at my favour­

ite old-fashioned theatre, charging longitudinally through the happy

occupants of the pit-planks, using her basket as a battering-ram, and

opening her ginger-pop over the shoulders of the public? Gone, Sir!

No such person known at the New Adelphi, No such person inquired

after, by the audience; no, hot even in the driest part of the eve­

ning, There the English public sat, sir, in their Frenchified pit, with their refreshment-room to go to if they pleased, as calmly, as

comfortably, and as uncomplainingly as if they had been used to it all their lives,

I felt my temper going. Mine is a very fair temper under ordinary circumstances; but it is not quite proof against the provoca­ tion of the New Adelphi. I say, I lost my temper, and I half rose to leave my unendurably easy seat—when a new line in the play-bill caught my eye. "No Second Pricel ” I sat down again, incapable, even after all that I had seen, of realising this climax of innovation.

If there is an English institution left in this country (which I 159

sometimes doubt), it is,Half Price, Don't we all know what a blessing

it is for the audience who have been fools enough to pay whole price,

to be invaded at nine o'clock by another audience, who have been wise

enough to pay half price? Don't we all know how it improves the

closing scenes of an interesting play, and how it encourages the

actors who happen to be on the stage at the time, to hear the silence

in the theatre suddenly interrupted by a rushing and scraping of feet

and a rapid opening and shutting of box-doors? No Second PriceJ I

protest I could not believe it—I thought it was a hoax—and I waited,

to make sure, till nine o'clock came. Dead silence; the play and the

actors entirely uninterrupted; not a footfall in the pit, not a bang

at the box-doors. That was quite enough for me--I felt my own in­

dividuality slipping from under me, as it were—and I left the theatre,

on patriotic grounds, never—no, never—to enter it again.

You may call this prejudice, and you may ask what it all means besides grumbling. It means, sir, that Mr, Webster's foreign freak is likely to alter other places of public amusement besides his own.

Before long, this gentleman's mischievous experiment in building will be teaching the once contented English public to exact comfortable seats, sensible arrangements, and architectural fitness and beauty from managers generally, as well as stage entertainments; and the necessary consequence will be, the transmogrification of most of our other theatres, as well as of the new theatre in the Strand. We have risen to be a great people under our existing theatrical system; we were going on remarkably well on our characteristic bare benches—and, 160 on pure conservative grounds, I protest against Mr. Webster’s con­ spiracy to slip cushions under us, to support our backs, to give room for our legs, to please our eyes, to coddle our hardy lower orders and to save all our pockets. Let this rashest of existing managers beware. He has entered on a career of which no man can see the end.

He has spoilt the public with good accommodation already—the next outrageous luxuries they will learn to clamour for will be good plays.

I remain, sir (in an epistolary sense, but in no other), yours,

J, Bull.

P.S,—I forgot to mention, as a last instance of the absurd manner in which the public is petted at the New Adelphi, that the management looks carefully after anything they may leave behind them in their seats—publishes a register of the articles so found, in the play-bill—and keeps them to be applied for at the stage-door. Here is a premium on carelessness, and a mischievous discouragement of trade. A lady who leaves her fan behind her, gets it back again now.

In the good old times she would have had to buy another. 161

The Informal Essay—-Politics and Protocol (Headnote Commentary)

The "respectable" middle class in which Wilkie circulated cer­

tainly did not have the problems of stark survival that many working

men and their families faced, and Wilkie certainly does not attempt

to write in such a serious tone about this class and its "problems."

In "Strike!" Wilkie’s imagination speculates on the possibility of

applying this bargaining tool for the improvement of public services

rendered to the "respectable" class. The rationale which Collins

selects for the material indicates that the tone and consequently

the intent are not to be taken too seriously. For example, if Collins

would have wanted the piece to be a serious criticism, he would have

placed the danger of railways last since it endangered human life.

Instead, the material becomes more trivial as it is aligned with

complaints about physical discomfort in public theatres and omnibuses.

Toward the end of the essay he enjoys tagging the respectable middle

class as grumblers or writers-of-letters-to-the-Times. Again Wilkie

shows his chameleon-like ability to goad the grumblers Smoulder,

Snorter, Gruffer, and Grumper in this essay while flattering them in another,163

The title of the second article in this series, "A Clause for

the New Reform Bill," would seem to be indicative of a political 164 tract, but actually the article makes a sincere plea to the public

for a reduction of the flamboyant mummery surrounding royal proces- sions. This plea is strengthened when Collins speculates that

Queen Victoria would prefer to see how her subjects really exist in 162

everyday life and demonstrates this with the example of the Queen

herself dressing for these public appearances in tasteful street

clothes rather than in robe, crown, and scepter,

Dress fashion introduces still another commentary upon the

respectable Englishman’s insistence on entertaining huge groups of his peers in his home, thereby squeezing and cramping them in a most uncomfortable manner. Of course crinoline is not blamed for this

situation even by the father who is narrating this delightful dis­ course since the crinoline makes his daughters a more marketable marital commodity. The shrewd tactfulness of this narrator becomes more amusing when we remember his creator remained a bachelor in real life **#****«** 163

"Strike!" Household Words, XVII (February 6, 18$8), l69-?2.

Some years ago, the inhabitants of a small English country town were astonished by a very extraordinary circumstance. A new fishmonger from London suddenly plunged into the calm waters of the local trade, set up a magnificent shop, and sold his delicate goods at amazingly reasonable prices. The town, being by no means popu­ lous enough to support any two tradespeople who dealt in the same article, and the patronage of the fickle public being soon almost exclusively bestowed upon the new fishmonger, the old-established shop, which did business in the old-established way, was soon shut up; and the proprietor was reported to have left the place in disgust, with the intention of trying his luck in any other district of Eng­ land, in which he could hope for the common justice of meeting with fair play.

No sooner had the new fishmonger got the public all to himself, than a gradual, steady, unintermitting rise began to take place in his prices. He was a very intelligent man, and he explained this alarming phenomenon clearly and fluently, on the soundest commercial principles. Nobody who objected to his bills, ever got the better of him in argument. Week after week his prices grew higher, and his train of reasoning in support of them more and more brilliantly convincing and conclusive. At last, the charges rose to such an ex­ orbitant rate, and the monopoly enjoyed by the new fishmonger asserted itself so unendurably, as well as so logically, over the purses of 164

his helpless customers, that the public spirit of the townspeople

rose in resistance, A private meeting of the respectable classes was summoned at the house of the daring patriot who led the local

struggle for the twin-blessings of freedom and cheap fish. Resolu­

tions were proposed and passed, binding all the persons present,

representing the rank, the respectability and the fish-consumption

of the town, to make the sacrifice of at once abstaining from eating

fish, on any pretence whatever, until absolute want of custom should have had the effect of starving the rogue who had impudently cheated

the whole community, out of the town.

It is gratifying to be able to report that no member of the

League thus formed, proved unfaithful to the common cause; that the

exorbitant fishmonger, after desperately resisting the combination against him for two whole months, and after vainly proposing a com­ promise with his outraged customers, fairly evacuated the town under stress of circumstances; that the old-established tradesman was sought for, lias recalled, and was set up in his former business; and that the inhabitants have eaten their fish at reasonable prices, from that eventful period to the present day.

The anecdote which I have just related is not only true, but is also, as I have every reason to think, unique. Trifling as it my appear, it affords, I believe, the only instance on record, in which the middle classes of England have been found capable of com­ bining together for the sake of promoting their own social advantage,

If this conclusion be the true one—and I shall presently offer a 165

few striking proofs in support of it—some rather serious considera­

tions arise, in reference to the share which, little as we may think

it, we ourselves have,in perpetuating some of the most vexatious and

unpopular abuses of our own time.

Englishmen of the middle classes have combined together, and will probably again combine together, for the promotion of religious and of political reforms. Some very great victories in both these

directions, have been won already by the influence of that united

self-denial and united perseverance which is described by the word

League, We, the respectable people, when we have a religious want or a political want, thoroughly understand the necessity of carrying

out the desired object by sacrificing our own individual convenience to the first great consideration of the general benefit. When we have a social want, however, do we recognise the same principle? I rather think that we become, in this case, suddenly incapable of see­ ing it at all. The principle of a Strike, as understood and practised by the artisan, when he feels (whether rightly or wrongly, it is not my present business to inquire) that he is suffering under an abuse which nothing but self-devotion can help to remedy, seems to be, as to all social difficulties, a complete mystery to the gentleman who stands above him in rank and education. It is a notorious fact, that various bodies and individuals make large fortunes by professing to minister to the necessities, the conveniences, and the amusement of the respectable classes; and it is equally indisputable that the promises which these professions imply, are, in the great majority 166

of cases, not fairly performed. When we are impudently cheated of

our fair demands in religious or in political matters, what do we

do in the last resort? We right ourselves by a combination—or, in

plainer English, we strike. On the other hand, when we are cheated

in social matters, what do we do? We grumble, and submit. For the

sake of our faith, or for the sake of our freedom (to borrow an

illustration from the anecdote at the head of this paper), we are

bravely ready to do without our fish. For the sake of our every-day

necessities, comforts, and conveniences, we are none of us individually

ready to sacrifice to the common cause so much as a single shrimp.

Let me make my meaning clearer by a few examples. Take an

example, first, of an abuse, in the rectifying of which the inter­

ests of all our lives and limbs are concerned--take the case of the

obstinate refusal of Railway Directors to give us a means of com­

munication, in case of accidents, between the passengers and the

engine-driver. Does any man, in his senses, believe that the granting

of this just demand will be procured by any of the means which have

hitherto been tried for enforcing it? A few months since, a railway

carriage full of people was on fire. Everyone of the passengers would have been burnt alive, if a few labourers had not happened to be working, on that particular day, at a particular part of the line.

This frightfully narrow escape from the most horrible of deaths, was published in letters to the Times, The vital necessity of a com­

munication between the passengers and the guard was urged by the by the very men who had been all but killed for want of it. The same 167

safeguard has been petitioned for to Parliament. And what good has

come of taking this course? What good ever does come of shifting

responsibilities, with which each man of us is individually concerned,

on the shoulders of others? Have our letters to the Times—has our

Imperial Parliament—got us what we so urgently want? On this very day, thousands and thousands of people will be travelling, with

nothing but a screen of wood and cloth between them and a fire which is rushing through the air at the rate of from five-and-twenty to sixty miles an hour.

What, then, in this case, is to get us our fair demand? I answer, quite seriously, nothing will get it, at once, but a Strike on the part of the travelling public. Let us combine to ruin the passenger-traffic; and, in three months* time, the Directors will be forced to give us what we want. You, who read this, and laugh at it, tell me how many times, in the course of the year, you travel on business which it is absolutely impossible to put off, and how many times you travel for your own convenience and amusement, which a tem­ porary self-sacrifice might well enable you to postpone? If you want fair protection for your life, will you put off attending to your own interests—for three months—to get it? You are the obstacle— not the difficulties of organising the Strike. We are already sub­ divided, by our professions, into distinct classes. Let us have our consulting representatives of each class; our delegates acting under them, with a certain round of streets to visit; our public meeting, when the delegates have made us acquainted with the matter in hand; 168 our signed engagement which it is a point of honour not to break— and the thing is done. For three months we all engage to. sacrifice our individual convenience and pleasure, to serve the common object of securing our own safety; and to travel only in cases in which the most serious interests are concerned. Is this such a very Utopian idea? Is it so absolutely impossible to organise ourselves in the manner just suggested? The tax-gatherer successfully subdivides us, reckons us up, disciplines us, holds us, by thousands and thousands at a time, in the hollw of his hand, opens our multitudinous pockets, as if they were the pockets of one man. Does anybody tell ms that what the tax-gatherer can do for us, we cannot, at a pinch, do for ourselves? If I wear a fustian jacket I can knock off work, by pre­ vious arrangement and combination, in three or four counties at once, on one given day, at one given hour. But if I am a clergyman, a doctor, a barrister, I cannot knock off travelling in the same way— no, not although the interests of my life depend on it. In the one case—-with Poverty and Hunger against me—I can sacrifice myself at the word of command. In the other case, with nothing to dread but the temporary loss of some country pleasure, or a temporary delay in seeing the sights of London, I become utterly incapable of raking my individual sacrifice for the public benefit: I let men, whose pockets I am filling, endanger my life with impunity; and,- when I escape being roasted alive, I think I have done my duty if I pester the Editor of the Times with letters, helplessly entreating him to save me the trouble of redressing my own grievances and protecting 169

my own life.

Take another case. The other day, I met my friend Smoulder,

He was grumbling, just as tens of thousands of other Englishmen of his class grumble; the subject, this time, being the disgracefully uncomfortable condition of the metropolitan omnibuses.

"Here is a great Company," says Smoulder, "which buys up all the London omnibuses; which starts with the most magnificent promises relative to the reformation of those detestable vehicles; and which even invites every ingenious man in the country to forward the re­ form, by sending in models of a new kind of omnibus. What has become of all the promises, and all the models? Here we are still with the same old omnibuses, and the same old grievances to complain of. There is no more room for me on my seat, new, than there was before the great Company was heard of. I am squeezed on getting in, and crushed on sitting down, just as I used to be,--squeezed, sir, and crushed, sir, and by an infernal Monopoly, sir, that promised me a new omnibus to ride in. You are a literary man. Why don’t you sit down, and write a letter about it to the Times?"

No, my friend, I will not write to the editor of the Times, to ask him to do for you, what you ought to do, and can do, for your­ self . You live in a large suburb of London, and you are one of a large class of business-men, who return a regular daily revenue to the omnibus Company, You and your fellows, in the morning and the evening, and your wives, sisters, and daughters, when they go out shopping, in the course of the day, are the principal customers who 170

keep certain lines of omnibuses running. Call a meeting in the City,

and propose that the whole class of the business-men shall give up

using omnibuses for the next six weeks, and direct their female

relatives to do the same. Make up your minds, and make up their

minds, to walk for that time only. Or, if this cannot be done, spend

a little extra money—for not more than six weeks, remember—in

cab-hire. Only sacrifice yourselves individually, for this short

time, and in this easy manner; and you will promote the general inter­

est of your class, by forcing the London Omnibus Company to do it

justice. How long do you think that monopoly would hold out against

the sudden withdrawal of tens of thousands of omnibus passengers,

representing tens of thousands of fourpences, and sixpences, and not

to be reduced to submission by hunger, as the poor men are reduced when they combine against the rich master. Strike, Smoulderl Strike

for six weeks, and ride in comfort for the rest of your days.

Smoulder stares at me,—shakes his head,—says irritably:

"You turn everything into a joke. Who's to do all that, I should like to know?"—prefers passive grumbling, to which he is accustomed, to active resistance, of which he has no idea;—hails the omnibus, not being able to look an inch beyond his own convenience, the next morning as usual,—aimlessly grumbles over the discomfort of it, all the way to the Bank, with his friend Snorter; who aimlessly grumbles also, to the same tune, in a lower key;—meets Gruffer and Grumper on 'Change, and grumbles to them;—goes home (in the omnibus again) and grumbles to his wife and children;—finally, writes a letter to 171

the Times, and actually thinks, when he sees it in print, that he has done a public duty.

Once more, there are the theatres. There is hardly a person in this country, possessing an ordinary sense of comfort, who does not dread going, even to the most attractive performances, on account of the miserably defective accommodation which the managers offer to the public in return for their money. If we sit in the dress-circle, have we room for our legs? Can we move without jostling our neigh­ bours on both sides? Can we even see comfortably unless we are in the front row? If we go down-stairs into the stalls, are we not jammed together on high seats, with no foot-stools and no carpet, on the principle of getting as many of us into the place as possible— that place never having been originally intended for stalls at all?

I know two theatres in London—and two only—in which it is possible to sit in the stalls with moderate comfort, and to see below the knees of the actors. As for the pit—with its rows of narrow wooden planks, half of them without hacks, and all of them twice as close together as they ought to be—what words can describe the wretched­ ness of it? Where, in the rest of the habitable world, out of doors or in, is the cruel discomfort of the so-called sitting accommodation of a British pit to be equalled? It is really inconceivable that the public should now have submitted, for years and years, to be packed together, for the sake of putting certain additional pounds per night into the manager’s pockets, like pigs on board an Irish steam-boat. And yet, they have submitted, when the remedy lay all 172

the time, in their own hands. No miserable sinner in this country

more thoroughly enjoys good acting than I do. And yet, if I thought

the inhabitants of my parish would follow my example, and would try

to rouse other parishes to the same sensible course of action, I

would, from this moment, cheerfully engage to abstain from entering

a theatre for a whole year’s time, if need be, for the sake of ulti­

mately starving the managers into giving us decent accommodation for

our money. How comfortably we might sit and see a play, if we could

only combine to send round a circular letter of this sort to the

proprietors of the London theatres!

"Sir,—I am desired to inform you, on the part of the theatri­

cally-disposed inhabitants of this parish, that our bones have ached

in your pit, our necks stiffened in your stalls, and our legs caught

the cramp in your boxes, long enough. Your audience, sir, in this district, has struck for better seats, to a man, to a woman, to a

child. Put what you like in your bill, not one of us will enter your theatre till our good money has wrung out of you the common

justice, in return, of a comfortable seat."

What palaces of luxury our theatres would become in a few months, if the managers received such a letter as that, next week, from every parish in London!

There is the question of school education again. The public, fast asleep as usual, has been woke up about that subject, lately, by the Times, The case has been mentioned of a gentleman whose bill 173

for the half-year’s schooling and boarding of two little boys amounted to seventy-five pounds. This extortion was commented on

publicly by an eminent novelist, was further exposed by an excellent article in the Times, which article was applauded with the usual unnecessary servility by the usual letter-writers who appear in that

journal. What result has followed? One impudent letter, so far as

I know, from one impudent schoolmaster. What other results are to be expected? Tell me plainly, will the comments of the eminent novelist, will the excellent article in the Times, will the fawning approval of the public letters, lower our school-bills—say, in a year’s time? Judging by past experience in other natters, and by the representative letter of the impudent schoolmaster, I should say not. What, then, will lower them? Emptying the expensive schools next half-year—or, in other words, a strike of parents. My house would be dreadfully noisy, my boys would break the windows and play tricks with gunpowder, and I should have to suffer the shocking hardship of teaching them myself, unless I looked about and hired a tutor for the half-year. All serious inconvenience, I admit-—but which alternative is the worse? To be uncomfortable for six months, or to submit to be fleeced regularly every half-year until my boys are grown up?

Here I rest my case; not because I am getting to the end of my examples, but because I am.getting to the end of my space. Many readers may differ with my opinions, and may laugh at my remedy. It is easy to do so. But it is equally easy to obey the injunction 174 which heads this paper. We travel every day in peril of being burnt to death; we ride in uncomfortable omnibuses; we sit in theatres with aching necks and bones, and are fleeced in them by box-opening harpies after we have paid our admission money; we pay bi-annually for the teaching and boarding of two of our small children a sum which equals a year’s income for a clerk and his family—whose fault is it, really and truly, that these grievances, and dozens of others which might be mentioned, are not speedily and completely redressed?

Has it actually come to this, that the English public has a capacity of common suffering, and a capacity of common grumbling, but no capa­ city of common action for the promotion of social reforms? Our sys­ tem of civilisation relieves us of the performance of many irksome duties, by supplying us with deputies whose business it is to take them off our hands. This system has many obvious advantages, which no reasonable man can question. But, if it be pushed beyond its legitimate purpose of saving the useless waste of valuably.employed time, then it leads to serious disadvantages—even, as I am inclined to think to serious deterioration of the national character. Public opinion, in these latter days, is apathetically satisfied with much talking and much writings it shifts all doing to the shoulders of any chance deputy who may, or may not, turn up to accept practical responsibilities. It was not always so in England. When Hampden’s blood rose under the extortionate tyranny of Charles the First, he was not satisfied with expressing his opinion that his taxes were unjust; he struck, and taught his countrymen to strike; he buttoned 175 up his pockets 3.ike a man, and said, in plain, fearless words, "I will not pay the King his unjust demand." What does Hampden now, when every species of audacious social imposition is practised on him? He pays—and writes to the Times. 176

"A Clause for the New Reform Bill," /with Charles Dickens/ Household Words, XVIII (October 9, I858), 385-7.

At this dull season of the political year, and in the absence

of all other rumours, the rumour of a New Reform Bill is beginning

to strengthen prodigiously. No one seems to know exactly what the

bill is to be, or who is asking for it most loudly, or what particu­

lar party means to bring it in. Whether, among its other extraordi­

nary results, it is destined to show that Tories are Radicals, and

Radicals Tories, and Whigs nothing in particular—whether it is to

be an artful Bill of the old sort, which first delights us with mag­

nificent professions, and then astonishes us with minute performances;

or whether it is to be a Bill of original character, and of unparal­

leled resources in giving practical advantage to the people at large—

seems to be more than the wisest of our political sages can tell us.

All that we really know about the matter is, that a new Reform Bill

is being compounded somewhere. What the strength of the political

mixture nay be, which of the State Doctors will serve it out, and

what it will taste like when the British patient gets it, are myster­

ies, which no uninitiated mortal in the country can hope to solve.

Under such circumstances, this would seem to be the favourable

time for every nan who has got anything like an idea of reform in

his mind to bring it out, and furbish it up as smartly as may be, on

the chance of its being accepted by the competent authorities, in the shape of a practical hint. An idea has been, for some little 177

time past, suggesting itself persistently to our minds—-an idea which

is of the social rather than the political sort, and which is, as we

venture to think, especially fitted to figure in the new Reform Bill

on that very account—an idea which is bold enough to involve nothing

less than a sweeping change in the national reception of Her Majesty

the Queen, when she pays her next pniblic visit to her loving and

faithful People.

On a topic of this importance we come frankly to the pxsint at

once. Let us assume, to begin with, that the main interest of the

Queen, when she makes a Royal Progress, is to see for herself what

the character and the condition of her people actually is. It follows from this, that the main duty of the People is to present themselves honestly for what they really are, and to show all that belongs to them plainly for what it really is, when their-Sovereign comes among them. The question we desire to raise on these premises is, whether this essentially loyal, useful, and honest piurpose is now answered; and whether the Queen has such full and fair opportunities afforded to her of knowing her own people in their own character, and of see­ ing all that surrounds them in its true aspect, as she has both a personal and a royal right to expect.

When, for instance, the Queen visits one of our great towns, what does the great town do? Does it not clumsily try, at a consider­ able expense, to make itself look as like a bad travelling circus as possible? Does it not stick up, in honour of the occasion, theatrical canvas arches, and absurd flags that are no flags, and pretended drab 178

statues in pretended drab niches that are not statues and not niches,

and lamentable dead boughs that are a ghastly parody on living and

growing trees? Does it not commit every sort of unpardonable offence

against Taste, and make itself as ridiculously unreal as possible in

the broad, truth-telling daylight? Why should these things be?

Commemorate the Queen’s visit by a holiday, by all means—we have not

holidays enough in England—but, for mercy’s sake, leave the great

town alone, and let it speak for itself. Let it say to the Queen,

in effect:—"Please your Majesty, these are my plain stone-paved streets

where so mny thousand people in Lancashire and Yorkshire clogs, wake

my echoes as they go to their work at five or six in the morning.

Please your Majesty, these are my great chimneys, always vomiting

smoke when your Majesty is not here; smoke which is very ugly to look

at and very unpleasant to smell, but which is also inseparable from

many of the most beautiful and useful works in your Majesty's king­

dom, Please your Majesty, this concourse of inhabitants, in clean

plain clothes, that lines both sides of your way, is a striving, loyal,

respectful, good-humoured, long-suffering specimen of your Majesty's working subjects. It is ray opinion that I can show your Majesty nothing better or more interesting than this} and the scene-painter of my not particularly patronised theatre shall therefore not be called into requisition any more to turn me into a trumpery municipal masquerader, or to take your Majesty off, on allegorical false pre­ tences, as a Heathen goddess horrible to view, or as the eminent modern lady who goes up the Tight-rope, amongst Fireworks, in the 179

public gardens,"

Can it be imagined that, in all her progresses, the Queen ever

saw anything half so striking, pleasant, and memorable to her as the

miles of working-people who turned out to receive her at Manchester?

It would be preposterous to suppose that she can be otherwise than

interested in the real, honest, everyday aspect of her populous towns,

in which multitudes of her subjects live and die, working wearily

all their lives long to cake the commodities for which England is

famous; slowly, surely, resolutely hammering out her greatness in

the arts of peace and war, from a pin’s head to a monster mortar. It

is only reasonable to believe that the Queen is naturally and deeply

interested in such sights as these. But what sane man can suppose,

that she is interested in poles and canvas, and red drugget, and

theatrical properties, which take nobody in, and which lead to the

most inexcusably wasteful expenditure of money. Is not every town which opens its purse to pay for such sadly mistaken loyalty, sick and sorry for weeks afterwards? And what has the futile demonstra­

tion done for the Queen after all? It has probably given her beloved

Majesty the headache. It has certainly offended her taste; which is formed, be it remembered, in her own sphere, on the finest models that the Art of the civilised world can supply. And, worst and clumsiest mistake of all, it has flatly contradicted the principle on which the Queen’s own appearance is regulated when she travels.

When the Queen visits a town, does she drive into it in the state- coach, dressed in the robes in which she assembles Parliament, with 180

the sceptre in one hand and the ball in the other, and the crown

jewels, instead of a bonnet, on her head? No: she comes attired

quietly and in excellent taste—dressed, in a word, as a lady should

be dressed. All the people who look at her, see her enter the place

she visits, simply and sensibly, in her own natural everyday charac­

ter—and see the unfortunate town, on the other hand, carefully

deprived of as much of its natural, everyday character as the mayor

and corporation can possibly take away from it. How the local

officials can survey the Queen’s natural, nineteenth-century bonnet

passing under a miserably ineffectual imitation of a pagan arch of

triumph, without acutely feeling the rebuke which that eloquent part

of her Majesty’s costume administers to them, entirely passes our

comprehension. Surely the reporters conceal from us a certain class

of municipal accident: surely there are sensitive mayors, whoon such

occasions as these, sink self-reproachfully into their own robes, and are seen no more.

Not that we rashly despise a mayor. He is sometimes an excel­ lent fellow; but why—still connecting him with state receptions— why, like the town he rules, should he go wildly out of his way on account of a royal visit? And why, above all, should the unfortunate man get into the Queen’s way? Surely it is time that those ridicu­ lous Addresses which he brings obstinately to station-platforms, and presents, like a kind of unnecessary newspaper, at carriage-windows, should pass into the Limbo of charity-boys’ Christmas Pieces? We ought, however, to ask pardon of those obsolete works of art, for 181

comparing them with Mayors’ Addresses—for the Christmas-piece, awk­

ward as it might have been in execution, was, at least in intention,

a remembrance of the Life of Christ, But what can be said for the

Addresses? As a form of welcome to the Queen, they are utterly

superfluous; the sound substance of the welcome having been admin­

istered in the best of all ways beforehand by the cheering voices

of the people. Must we look at the Addresses as specimens of com­

position? If we do, we find them to be a species of literary hunting'

field, in which every substantive is a terrified stag, run down by

a pack of yelping tautological adjectives. For the sake of the

mayor—a man and a brother; a human being who has surely done us no

serious harm—for the sake of the mayor, who comes up innocently to

her Majesty’s carriage window, the unconscious bearer of a document

which accredits him as a mauler of her Majesty's English, suppress

the further production of Municipal Addresses! Don’t we know that

her Majesty laughs at the Mayor, and that everybody laughs at the

Mayor—except, of course, his own family. When the Mayor is a sen­

sible fellow, he even laughs at himself in his official sleeve. But

how hard, how unjust, how utterly indefensible, when a man has a

sense of the ridiculous, to condemn him cruelly to exercise It on

himself!

Even the Railways have caught the contagion. It was only the other day that the Peterborough Refreshment Room, on the Great

Northern, hearing of the Queen's approach, suddenly became ashamed of being a Refreshment Room, and tried in the most miserable manner, 182 to be a Drawing Room, or a Boudoir, or—Heaven only knows what! So frightfully did it blink all over with mirrors; so madly did it blister itself with tinsel; that no apartment in the least like it was ever yet known to mortals; unless we dignify an inferior class of doll’s house or a bad bon-bon box with the style and title of an apartment.

Is there anything treasonable in the act of calming the uproarious appetites of her Majesty's subjects? Is it part of our duty to our sovereign to conceal from her that such things exist in England as penny buns and pork-pies? Why could not the terrified refreshment room have been soothed and comforted and encouraged to speak for itself?

If it had said, ’’Please your Majesty, I am the humble servant of your

Majesty’s hungry subjects; and, as such, I respectfully present my­ self for inspection in my own useful work-a-day character "--if it had said that, where would have been the harm?

We know that the shareholders spent money, on this occasion, and have spent it, on mny other occasions, with the idea of pleasing the Queen, But, have they sufficiently considered whether an expen­ sive transmogrification of a refreshment room does give her pleasure?

Can any can who has looked at the apartments (at Windsor Castle and elsewhere) in which the Queen lives, suppose that the sight of those tawdry nondescript trumpery four walls at Peterborough really pro­ duced an agreeable impression on her, or really reminded her in the remotest degree of anything connected with her own or any other royal residence? Vie suggest that question to the shareholders for future consideration; and we put it to them, whether this wasteful 183 expenditure on temporary gew-gaws on the one side, and the riotous annual upbraidings of the directors, on the other, can be expected to look quite as sound as might be wished, in the eyes of that portion of the public which sees and thinks, in these matters, for itself?

Are we even quite sure that the Queen—who sees newspapers as well as transmogrified refreshment rooms—does not privately make some such unfavourable comparison.

But let us leave examples, and put the question, for the last time, on the broadest and most general grounds. We say, and say truly, that the Queen lives in the hearts of her people. But looking to external signs and tokens as exhibited by local authorities, we should see so little difference between a municipal reception of

Queen Victoria and a municipal reception of Napoleon the Third, that we should be puzzled—judging only by the official proceedings in each case—to know which of the two was the free ruler. There is, perhaps, a more perfect uniformity of folly in the decorations on the other side of the Channel; for, when the potent monarch on that throne wants his triumphal arches, illumination lamps, profile statues pretending to be solid, and other second-rate theatrical preparations, he sends down his gracious orders for so many gross of them, and they are turned out accordingly. But, otherwise, a French mayor's or a

French railway director's way of receiving Louis Napoleon and an

English mayor's .dr English railway director's way of receiving Queen

Victoria, are far too much alike. On this ground only, if there were no other, it is certainly desirable to alter our loyal demonstrations 184 for the better on the British side of the Straits of Dover. The next time the intelligent foreigner meets her Majesty on her travels, let him be able to say, "They manage these matters differently in

England." And let the New Reform Bill, if it be in want of a sensible social clause to fill up with, condescend to take a hint from these pages, and introduce among its provisions some such startling legis­ lative novelty as this:

And Be It Enacted, That the good Sense of the Country shall in future confidently trust to the good Sense of the Queen; and that no Cloud of Mayors, Upholsterers, Scene-Painters, or the like, shall henceforth be permitted to interpose between the next Meeting of the

Sovereign in her natural Character, and of the People and all that belongs to them, in their natural Characters. 185 "Give Us Room!" Household Words, XVII (February 13, 1858) 193-6.

The entertainments of the festive season of the year, so far

as I am personally concerned, have at last subsided into a temporary

lull, I and my family actually have one or two evenings to ourselves,

just at present. It is my purpose to take advantage of this interval

of leisure to express my sentiments on the subject of evening parties

and ladies’ dress.

Let nobody turn over this page impatiently alarmed at the

prospect of another diatribe against Crinoline, I, for one, am not

going to exhibit myself in the character of a writer who vainly

opposes one of the existing institutions of this country. The Press,

the Pulpit, and the Stage have been in the habit of considering

themselves as very powerful levers, capable of being used with

terrible effect on the inert material of society. All three have

tried to jerk that flourishing foreign plant, Crinoline, out of

English earth, and have failed to stir so much as a single root of it.

All three have run full tilt against the women of England, and have

not moved them an inch. Talk of the power of the Press! what is it,

compared to the power of a French milliner? The Press has tried to

abridge the women’s petticoats, and has utterly failed in the attempt.

When the right time comes, a French milliner will abridge them at a week’s' notice. The Pulpit preaches', the Stage ridicules; and each- woman of the congregation or the audience, sits, imperturbable, in the 186

middle of her balloon, and lets the serious words or the comic words

go in at one ear and come out at the other, precisely as if they were

spoken in an unknown tongue. Nothing that I can remember has so

effectually crushed the pretensions of the Press, the Pulpit, and the

Stage as the utter failure of their crusade against Crinoline.

My present object in writing is likely, I think to be popular—

at least, with the ladies. I do not want to put down Crinoline—I

only want to make room for it. Personally, I rather like it—I do,

indeed, though I am a man, The fact is, I am a thoroughly well-

disciplined husband and father; and I know the value of it. The only

defect in my eldest daughter's otherwise perfect form lies in her feet

and ankles. She is married, so I don't mind mentioning that they are

decidedly clumsy. Without Crinoline, they would be seen; with Crino­

line (except when she goes upstairs), nobody has the slightest

suspicion of them. My wife—pray don't tell her that I ever observed

it—my wife used to waddle before the invention of Crinoline. Now

she swims voluptuously, and knocks down all the light articles of

furniture, whenever she crosses the room, in a manner which, but for

the expense of repairs, would be perfectly charming. One of my other

single daughters used to be sadly thin, poor girl. Oh, how plump

she is nowl Oh, my marriageable young men, how ravishingly plumpt

she is now! Long life to the monarchy of Crinoline! Every mother in this country who has daughters to marry, and who is not quite so

sure of their unaided personal attractions as she might wish to be,

echoes that loyal cry, I am sure, from the bottom of her affectionate 187

heart. And the Press actually thinks it can shake our devotion to

our Queen Petticoat? Poohl pooht

But we must have room—we must positively have room for our

petticoat at evening parties. We wanted it before Crinoline. We

want it ten thousand times more now, I don’t know how other parents

feel; but unless there is some speedy reform in the present system of

party-giving, so far as regards, health, purse, and temper, I am a

lost nan, Let me make my meaning clear on this point by a simple and

truthful process. Let me describe how we went to our last party, and how we came back from it.

Doctor and Mrs, Crump, of Gloucester Place (I mention names and places to show the respectable character of the party), kindly requested the pleasure of our company a week ago. We accepted the invitation, and agreed to assemble in my dining-room previous to departure at the hour of half-past nine. It is unnecessary to say that

I and my son-in-law (who is now staying with me on a visit) had the room entirely to ourselves at the appointed time. We waited half an hour: both ill-tempered, both longing to be in bed, and both obstin­ ately silent. When the hall clock struck ten, a sound was heard on the stairs as if a whole gale of wind had broken into the house, and was advancing to the dining-room to blow us both into empty space.

We knew what this meant, and looked at each other, and said, "Here they'arel" The door opened, and Boreas swam In voluptuously, in the shape of my wife, in claret-colored velvet. She stands five feet nine, and wears—No! I have never actually counted them. Let me not 188

mislead the public, or do injustice to my wife. Let me rest

satisfied with stating her height, and adding that she is a fashion­

able woman. Her circumference, and the causes of it, may be left to

the imagination of the reader.

She was followed by four minor winds, blowing dead in our

teeth—by my married daughter in pink moirezantique; by my own Julia

(single) in violet tulle illusion; by my own Emily (single) in white

lace over glace silk; by my own Charlotte (single) in blue gauze over

glace* silk. The four minor winds and the majestic maternal Boreas

entirely filled the room, and overflowed on to the dining-table. It was a grand sight. My son-in-law and I--a pair of mere black tadpoles—

shrank into a corner, and gazed at it helplessly.-

Our corner was, unfortunately, the farthest from the door. So, when I moved to lead the way to the carriages, I confronted a brilliant intermediate expanse of ninety yards of outer clothing alone (allowing only eighteen yards each to the ladies). Being old, wily, and respected in the house, I took care to avoid my wife, and succeeded in getting through my daughters. My son-in-law, young, innocent, and of secondary position in the family, was not so fortunate, I left him helpless, looking around the corner of his mother-in-law’s claret-colored velvet, with one of his legs lost in his wife’s moire'antique. There is every reason to suppose that he never extricated himself; for when we .got into the carriages he was not to be found;-and, when ultimately recovered, he exhibited symptoms of physical and mental i exhaustion, I am afraid my son-in-law caught it-—I am very much 189

afraid that, during my absence, my son-in-law caught it.

We filled—no, we overflowed—two carriages. My wife and her

married daughter in one, and I myself on the box—-the front seat being very properly wanted for the velvet and the moirZantique. In the

second carriage were my three girls—crushed, as they indignantly

informed me, crushed out of all shape (didn’t I tell you just now how

plump one of them was?) by the miserably inefficient accommodation which the vehicle offered to them. They told my son-in-law, as he meekly mounted to the box, that they would take care not to marry a ' nan like him, at any rate! I have not the least idea what he had done

to provoke them. The worthy creature gets a great deal of scolding in the house, without any assignable cause for it. Do my daughters resent his official knowledge, as a husband, of the secret of their sister’s ugly feet? Oh, dear me, I hope not—I sincerely hope notl

At ten minutes past ten we drove to the hospitable abode of

Doctor and Mrs. Crump,. The women of my family were then perfectly dressed in the finest materials. There was not a flaw in any part of the costume of any one of the party. This is a great deal to say of ninety yards of clothing, without mentioning the streams of ribbon, and the dense thickets of flowery bushes that wantoned gracefully all over their heads and half down their backs—nevertheless, I can say it.

At forty minutes past four the next morning we were all assembled once more in my dining-room, to light our bedroom candles.

Judging by costume only, I should not have known one of my daughters 190

again—no, not one of them! The tulle illusion was illusion no longer. My daughter’s gorgeous substra-tum of gros de Naples bulged / through it in half a dozen places. The pink moire antique was torn

into a draggle-tailed pink train. The white lace was in tatters, and the blue gauze was in shreds,

"A charming party!" cried my daughters, in melodious chorus, as I surveyed this scene of ruin. Charming, indeed! If I had dressed up my four girls, and sent them to Greenwich Fair, with strict orders to get drunk and assault the police, and if they had carefully followed my directions, could they have come home to me in a much worse condi­ tion in which I see them now? Could any man not acquainted with the present monstrous system of party-giving look at my four young women and believe that they had been spending the evening, under the eyes of their parents, at a respectable house? If the party had been at a linen-draper’s, I could understand the object of this wanton destruc­ tion of property. But Doctor Crump is not interested in making me buy new gowns. What have I done to him that he should ask me and my family to his house, and all but tear my children’s gowns off their backs, in return for our friendly readiness to accept his invitation?

But my daughters danced all the evening, and these little accidents will happen in private ball-rooms, Indeed? I did not dance, my wife did not dance, my son-in-law did not dance. Have we escaped injury on that account? Decidedly not. Velvet is- not an easy thing to tear, so I have no rents to deplore in my wife’s dress. But I apprehend that a spoonful of trifle does not reach its destination 191

properly when it is deposited in a lady's lap; and I altogether deny

that there is any necessary connection between the charms of society

and the wearing of crushed macaroons adhesively dotted over the back

part of a respectable matron's dress, I picked three off my wife’s

gown, as she swam out of the dining-room, on her way upstairs; and I

am informed that two new breadths will be wanted in front, in conse­

quence of her lap having been turned into a plate for trifle. As for

my son-in-law, his trousers are saturated with spilled Champagne; and

he took, in my presence, nearly a handful of flabby lobster salad out

of the cavity between his shirt-front and his waistcoat. For myself,

I have had my elbow in a game pie, and I see with disgust a slimy path

of extinct custard meandering down the left hand lappel of my coat.

Altogether, this party, on the lowest calculation, casts me in dam­ ages to the tune of ten pounds eighteen shillings and six-pence,*

In damages for spoiled garments only, I have still to find out what the results may be of the suffocating heat in the rooms, and

* For the information of ignorant young men who are beginning life, I subjoin the laments.ble particular of this calculation:

s, d. A Tulle Illusion spoiled ,...... 2 0 0 Repairing gathers of Moire" Antique...... 0 5 0 Cheap white lace dress spoiled...... 3 0 0 Do. blue gauze do...... 1 6 0 Two new breadths of velvet for Mamma .. ... 4 0 0 Cleaning my son-in-law’s trousers ...... 0 2 6 Cleaning my own coat...... 05 0 Total . . . 10 18 6 192

the freezing draughts in the passages and on the stairs—I have still

to face the possible doctor's bills for treating our influenzas and our rheumatisms. And to what cause is all this destruction and dis­ comfort attributable? Plainly and simply, to this. When Doctor and

Mrs. Crump issued their invitations, they followed the example of the rest of the world, and asked to their house five times as many people as their rooms would comfortably hold. Hence, jostling, bumping, and tearing among the dancers, and jostling, bumping, and spilling in the supper-room. Hence, a scene of barbarous crowding and confusion, in which the successful dancers are the heaviest and rudest couples in the company, and the successful guests at the supper-table the people who have the least regard for the restraints of politeness and the wants of their neighbors.

Is there no remedy for this great social nuisance? for a nuisance it certainly is. There is a remedy in every district in

London, in the shape of a spacious and comfortable public room, which may be had for the hiring. The rooms to which I allude are never used for doubtful purposes. They are mainly devoted to Lectures, Concerts, and Meetings. When used for a private object, they might be kept private by giving each guest a card to present at the door, just as cards are presented at the opera. The expense of the hiring, when set against the expense of preparing a private house for a party, and the expense of the injuries which crowding causes, would prove to be next to nothing. The supper might be sent into the large room as it is sent into the snail house. And what benefit would be gained 193

by all this? The first and greatest of all benefits, in such cases—

room. Room for the dancers to exercise their art in perfect comfort;

room for the spectators to move about and talk to each other at their

ease; room for the musicians in a comfortable gallery; room for eating

and drinking; room for agreeable equal, ventilation. In one word, all

the acknowledged advantages of a public ball, with all the pleasant

social freedom of a private entertainment.

And what hinders the adopting of this sensible reform? Nothing

but the domestic vanity of my beloved countrymen.

I suggested the hiring of a room the other day to an excellent

friend of mine who thought of giving a party, and who inhumanly con­

templated asking at least a hundred people into his trumpery little ten-roomed house. He absolutely shuddered when I mentioned my idea; all his insular prejudices bristled up in an instant. "If I can’t receive my friends under my own roof, on my own hearth, sir, and in my own home, I won't receive them at all. Take a room, indeedl Do you call that an Englishman’s hospitality? I don’t," It was quite useless to suggest to this gentleman that an Englishman’s hospitality, or any man's hospitality, is unworthy of the name unless it fulfills the first great requisite of making his guests comfortable. We don’t take that far-fetched view of the case in this domestic country. We stand on our own floor (no matter whether it is only twelve feet square or not); we make a fine show in our houses (no matter whether they are large enough for the purpose or not); never mind the women’s dresses; never mind the dancers being in perpetual collision; never 194

mind the supper being a comfortless, barbarous scramble; never mind

the ventilation alternating between unbearable heat and unbearable

cold—an Englishman’s house is his castle, even when you can’t get up

his staircase, and can’t turn round in his rooms. If I lived in the

Black Hole at Calcutta, sir, I would see my friends there because I

lived there, and would turn up my nose at the finest marble palace in

the whole city, because it was a palace that could be had for the

hiring1

And yet the innovation on a senseless established custom which

I now propose is not without precedent, even in this country. When

I was a young man, I and some of my friends used to give a Bachelors*

Ball once a year. We hired a respectable public room for the purpose.

Nobody ever had admission to our entertainment who was not perfectly

fit to be asked into any gentleman’s house. Nobody wanted room to

dance in; nobody’s dress was injured; nobody was uncomfortable at

supper. Our ball was looked forward to every year by the young ladies

as the especial dance of the season, at which they were sure to enjoy

themselves. They talked rapturously of the charming music, and the

brilliant lighting, and the pretty decorations, and the nice supper.

Old ladies and gentlemen used to beg piteously that they might not be

left out on account of their years. People of all ages, and tastes

found something to please them at the Bachelors’ Ball, and never had a recollection in connection with it which-was not of the happiest

nature. What prevents us, now we are married, from following the

sensible proceeding of our younger days? The stupid assumption that 195

my house must be big enough to hold all my friends comfortably,

because it is my house, I did not reason in that way when I had

lodgings, although my bachelor sitting-room was, within a few feet

each way, as large as my householder’s drawing-room at the present

time.

However, I have really some hopes of seeing the sensible re­

form which I have ventured to propose practically and generally

carried out before I die. Not because I advocate it, not because it

is in itself essentially reasonable; but merely because the course of

Time is likely, before long, to leave obstinate Prejudice no choice

of alternatives and no power of resistance. Party-giving is on the

increase, party-goers are on the increase, petticoats are on the

increase; but private houses remain exactly as they were. It is evi­

dently only a question of time. The guests already overflow on to

the staircase. Give us a ten years’ increase of the population, and

they will overflow into the street. When the door of the Englishman’s

non-sensical castle cannot be shut, on account of the number of his

guests who are squeezed out to the threshold, then he will concede

to necessity what he will not now concede to any strength of reason­

ing, or to any gentleness of persuasion. The only cogent argument with obstinate people is Main Force; and Time, in the case now under

consideration, is sooner ox* later sure to employ it. 196

Sketches of Character—Widow and Spinster (Headnote Commentary)

"Mrs, Badgery" and "Pray Employ Major Namby" contain the best

examples of the self-revealing humorous narrator and the subdued

caricature who find themselves confronting each other in awkward

situations. Much of the humor bubbles from the narrators who, while

tagging and ridiculing their "adversaries," are actually making them­

selves appear just as eccentric and ridiculous (possibly even more so).

In "Mrs. Badgery" Collins again employs the bachelor narrator who is

caught in a helpless situation which includes the refusal of a widow

lady to relinquish physically and emotionally her former home ("shrine")

and the memories of her husband. As the bachelor’s irritation grows,

so does his vivid description of the "black crepe Gorgon" equipped

with a portable camp stool.

Collins reverses the roles in the next article, "Pray Employ

Major Namby," so that the narrator becomes an evangelical maiden lady

who squabbles with an Anglo-Indian officer. Before the narrator

successfully states her thesis, she relays to the reader a sensitiv­

ity about her age and spinsterhood while making an effort to gather

her scatterbrained thoughts, Eventually we learn that her annoyance

comes from a certain Major Namby’s insistence on vociferously con­

ducting his domestic business in the front garden. Like her bachelor

counterpart in "Mrs. Badgery" the narrator finds herself in a dead­

locked situation: both she and Major Namby own their homes; Namby is

not likely to be called for active military duty (our busy narrator has taken the trouble to find out that the Major has not had a 197 particularly active military record.) The humor in this situation attains its greatest intensity when Lady Malkinshaw calls on the spinster and is constantly interrupted in her intimate conversation with the narrator by Major Namby's orders of the day. It is easy to see why this piece became one of the favorites on many public reading circuits.^?

#$*#*♦#*** 198

"Mrs, Badgery," Household Words, XVI (September 26, 1857), 289-93.

Is there any law in England which will protect me from Mrs.

Badgery?

I am a bachelor, and Mrs. Badgery is a widow. Let nobody

rashly imagine that I am about to relate a common-place grievance,

because I have suffered that first sentence to escape my pen. My

objection to Mrs, Badgery is, not that she is too fond of me, but

that she is too fond of the memory of her late husband. She has not

attempted to marry me; she would not think of marrying me, even if I asked her. Understand, therefore, if you please, at the outset, that

my grievance in relation to this widow lady is a grievance of an

entirely new kind.

Let me begin again. I am a bachelor of a certain age, I have a large circle of acquaintance; but I solemnly declare that the late

Mr. Badgery was never numbered on the list of my friends. I never heard of him in my life; I never knew that he had left a relict; I never set eyes on Mrs. Badgery until one fatal morning when I went to

see if the fixtures were all right in my new house.

My new house is in the suburbs of London. I looked at it, liked it, took it. Three times I visited it before I sent my furni­ ture in. Once with a friend, once with a surveyor, once by myself, to throw a sharp eye, as I have already intimated,, over the fixtures.

The third visit marked the fatal occasion on which I first saw Mrs,

Badgery, A deep interest attaches to this event, and I shall go into 199

details in describing it.

I rang at the bell of the garden-door. The old woman appointed

to keep the house answered it, I directly saw something strange and

confused in her face and manner. Some men would have pondered a little and questioned her, I am by nature impetuous and a rusher at con­

clusions. ''Drunk," I said to myself, and walked on into the house

perfectly satisfied.

I looked into the front parlour. Grate all right, curtain-

pole all right, gas chandelier all right. I looked into the back

parlour-ditto, ditto, ditto, as we men of business say. I mounted

the stairs. Blind on lack window right? Yes; blind on back window right, I opened the door of the front drawing-room—and there, sitting in the middle of the bare floor, was a large woman on a little camp- stool! She was dressed in the deepest mourning, her face was hidden by the thickest crape veil I ever saw, and she was groaning softly to herself in the desolate solitude of my new unfurnished house.

What did I do? Do! I bounced back into the landing as if I had been shot, uttering the national exclamation of terror and aston­ ishment: "Hullo!" (And here I particularly beg, in parenthesis, that the printer will follow my spelling of the word, and not put Hillo, or

Halloa, instead, both of which are base compromises which represent no sound that ever yet issued from any Englishman's lips,) I said,

"Hullo!" and then I turned round fiercely upon the old woman who kept the house, and said "Hullo1" again.

She understood the irresistible appeal that I had made to her 200

feelings, and. curtseyed, and looked towards the drawing-room, and

humbly hoped that I was not startled or put out. I asked who the

crape-covered woman on the camp-stool was, and what she wanted there.

Before the old woman could answer, the soft groaning in the drawing­ room ceased, and a muffled voice, speaking from behind the crape veil, addressed me reproachfully, and said:

"I am the widow of the late Mr. Badgery."

What did I say in answer? Exactly the words which, I flatter myself, any other sensible man in my situation would have said. And what words were they? These two:

"Oh, indeed!"

"Mr. Badgery and myself were the last tenants who inhabited this house," continued the muffled voice, "Mr. Badgery died here."

The voice ceased, and the soft groans began again.

It was perhaps not necessary to answer this; but I did answer it. How? In one words

"Ha!"

"Our house has been long empty," resumed the voice, choked by sobs, "Our establishment has been broken up. Being left in reduced circumstances, I now live in a cottage near; but it is not home to me. This is home. However long I live, wherever I go, whatever changes may happen to this beloved house, nothing can ever prevent me from looking on it as my home, I came here, sir, with Mr, Badgery after our honeymoon. All the brief happiness of my life was once contained within these four walls. Every dear remembrance that I 201

fondly cherish is shut up in these sacred rooms,"

Again the voice ceased, and again the soft groans echoed round

my empty walls, and oozed out past me down my uncarpeted staircase,

I reflected. Mrs. Badgery’s brief happiness and dear remem­

brances were not included in the list of fixtures. Why could she not

take them away with her? Why should she leave them littered about in

the way of my furniture? I was just thinking how I could put this view of the case strongly to Mrs, Badgery, when she suddenly left off

groaning, and addressed me once more,

"While this house has been empty," she said, "I have been in

the habit of looking in from time to time, and renewing my tender associations with the place, I have lived, as it. were, in the sacred memories of Mr, Badgery and of the past, which these dear, these price­ less rooms call up, dismantled and dusty as they are at the present moment. It has been my practice to give a remuneration to the atten­ dant for any slight trouble that I might occasion-—"

"Only sixpence, sir," whispered the old woman, close at my ear.

"And to ask nothing in return," continued Mrs. Badgery, "but the permission to bring my camp-stool with me, and to meditate on Mr.

Badgery in the empty rooms, with every one of which some happy thought, or eloquent word, or tender action of his, is so sweetly associated,

I came here on my usual errand to-day. I am discovered, I presume, by the.new proprietor of the house--discovered, I am-quite ready to admit, as an Intruder, I am willing to go, if you wish it after hearing my explanation. My heart is full, sir; I am quite incapable 202

of contending with you. You would hardly think it, but I am sitting

on the spot once occupied by our ottoman, I am looking towards the

window in which my flower-stand once stood. In this very place, Mr,

Badgery first sat down and clasped me to his heart, when we came back

from our honey-moon trip. ’Matilda,' he said, 'your drawing-room

has been expensively papered, carpeted, and furnished for a month;

but it has only been adorned, love, since you entered it,' If you

have no sympathy, sir, for such remembrances as these; if you see

nothing pitiable in my position, taken in connection with my presence

here; if you cannot enter into my feelings, and thoroughly understand

that this is not a house, but a Shrine—-you have only to say so, and

I am quite willing to go,"

She spoke with the air of a martyr—a martyr to my insensibility

If she had been the proprietor and I had been the intruder, she could

not have been more mournfully magnanimous. All this time, too, she

never raised her veil--she never has raised it, in my presence, from

that time to this, I have no idea whether she is young or old, dark

or fair, handsome or ugly: my impression is, that she is in every

respect a finished and perfect Gorgon, but I have no basis of fact

on which I can support that dismal idea. A moving mass of crape, and

a muffled voice—that, if you drive me.to it, is all I know, in a per­

sonal point of view, of Mrs. Badgery.

"Ever since my irreparable loss, this has been the shrine-of my pilgrimage, and the altar of my worship," proceeded the voice.

"One man nay call himself a landlord, and say that he will let it; 203

another man may call himself a tenant, and say that he will take it.

I don't blame either of those two men; I don’t wish to intrude on

either of those two men; I only tell them that this is my house; that

my heart is still in possession, and that no mortal laws, landlords,

or tenants can ever turn it out. If you don't understand this, sir;

if the holiest feelings that do honour to our common nature have no

particular sanctity in your estimation, pray do not scruple to say

so; pray tell me to go."

"I don't wish to do anything uncivil, ma’am," said I. "But

I am a single man, and I am not sentimental." (Mrs. Badgery groaned.)

"Nobody told me I was coming into a Shrine when I took this house;

nobody warned me, when I first went over it, that there was a Heart in possession, I regret to have disturbed your meditations, and I am sorry to hear that Mr. Badgery is dead. That is all I have to say about it; and, now, with your kind permission, I will do myself the honour of wishing you good morning, and will go up-stairs to look after the fixtures on the second floor,"

Could I have given a gentler hint than this? Could I have spoken more compassionately, to a woman whom I sincerely believe to be old and ugly? Where is the man to be found who can lay his hand on his heart, and honestly say that he ever really pitied the sorrows of a Gorgon? Search through the whole surface of the globe; and you will, discover human phenomena of all sorts, but you will not find that man.

To resume, I made her a bow, and left her on the camp-stool, 204

in the middle of the drawing-room floor, exactly as I had found her,

I ascended to the second floor, walked into the hack room first, and

inspected the grate. It appeared to be a little out of repair, so I

stooped down to look at it closer. While I was kneeling over the

tars, I was violently startled by the fall of one large drop of warm

water, from a great height, exactly in the middle of a bald place,

which has been widening a great deal of late years on the top of my

head. I turned on my knees, and looked round. Heaven and earth!

the crape-covered woman had followed me up-stairs—the source from

which the drop of warm water had fallen was no other than Mrs.

Badgery’s eye. ,

"I wish you could contrive not to cry over the top of my head,

ma’am," said I, My patience was becoming exhausted, and I spoke with

considerable asperity. The curly-headed youth of the present age may

not be able to sympathise with my feelings on this occasion; but my bald brethren know, as well as I do, that the most unpardonable of all liberties is a liberty taken with the unguarded top of the human head, Mrs. Badgery did not seem to hear me. When she had dropped the tear, she was standing exactly over me, looking down at the grate; and she never stirred an inch after I had spoken, "Don’t cry over my head, ma’am," I.repeated, more irritably than before.

"This was his dressing-room," said Mrs. Badgery, indulging in muffled soliloquy. "He was singularly particular about his shaving- water, He always liked to have it in a little tin pot, and he invari­ ably desired that it might be placed on this hob." She groaned again, 205

and tapped one side of the grate with the leg of her camp-stool.

If I had been a woman, or if Mrs. Badgery had been a man, I

should now have proceeded to extremities, and should have vindicated

my right to my own house by an appeal to physical force. Under ex­

isting circumstances, all that I could do was to express my indigna­

tion by a glance. The glance produced not the slightest result—and

no wonder. Who can look at a woman with any effect, through a crape

veil?

I retreated into the second-floor front room, and instantly

shut the door after me. The next moment I heard the rustling of the

crape garments outside, and the muffled voice of Mrs. Badgery poured

lamentably through the keyhole,

"Do you mean to make that your bedroom?" asked the voice on

the other side of the door, "Oh, don't, don't make that your bedroom!

I am going away directly--but, oh pray, pray let that one room be

saeredl Don’t sleep there! If you can possibly help it, don't sleep

there!"

I opened the window, and looked up and down the road. If I had seen a policeman within hail I should certainly have called him in. No such person was visible, I shut the window again, and warned

Mrs. Badgery, through the door, in my sternest tones, not to interfere with my domestic arrangements, "1 mean to have my bedstead put up here," I said. "And what is more, I mean to sleep here, Ard, what is more, I mean to snore here!" Severe, I think, that last sentence?

It completely crushed Mrs. Badgery for the moment. I heard the crape 206

garments rustling away from the door; I heard the muffled groans

going slowly and solemnly down the stairs again.

In due course of time, I also descended to the ground-floor.

Had Mrs. Badgery really left the premises? I looked into the front parlour—empty. Back parlour—empty. Any other room on the ground- floor? Yes; a long room at the end of the passage. The door was closed. I opened it cautiously, and peeped in, A faint scream, and a smack of two distractedly-clasped hands saluted my appearance. There she was, again on the camp-stool, again sitting exactly in the middle of the floor.

"Don't, don’t look in, in that wayl" cried Mrs, Badgery, wring­ ing her hands. "I could bear it in any other room, but I can’t bear it in this. Every Monday morning I looked out the things for the wash in this room. He was difficult to please about his linen; the washerwoman never put starch enough into his collars to satisfy him.

Oh, how often and often has he popped his head in here, as you popped yours just now; and said, in his amusing way, 'More starchl' Oh, how droll he always was—how very, very droll in this dear little back room!"

I said nothing. The situation had now got beyond words, I stood with the door in my hand, looking down the passage towards the garden, and waiting doggedly for Mrs. Badgery to go out. My plan succeeded. She rose, sighed, shut up the camp-stool, stalked along the passage, paused on the hall rat, said to herself, "Sweet, sweet spot!" descended the steps, groaned along the gravel-walk, and dis­ 207

appeared from view at last through the garden-door,

"Let her in again at your peril," said I to the woman who kept

the house. She curtseyed and trembled, I left the premises, satis­

fied with my own conduct under very trying circumstances, delusively

convinced also that I had done with Mrs, Badgery.

The next day I sent in the furniture. The most unprotected

object on the face of this earth is a house when the furniture is

going in. The doors must be kept open; and employ as many servants

as you nay, nobody can be depended on as a domestic sentry so long as

the van is at the gate. The confusion of "moving in" demoralises the

steadiest disposition, and there is no such thing as a properly-

guarded post from the top of the house to the bottom. How the invasion

was managed, how the surprise was effected, I know not; but it is cer­

tainly the fact, that when my furniture went in, the inevitable Mrs.

Badgery went in along with it.

I have some very choice engravings, after the old masters; and

I was first awakened to a consciousness of Mrs, Badgery’s presence

in the house while I was hanging up my proof impression of Titian’s

Venus over the front parlour fire-place, "Not there!" cried the

muffled voice imploringly, "His portrait used to hang there. Oh, what a print—-what a dreadful, dreadful print to put where his dear

portrait used to be!" I turned round in a fury. There she was, still muffled up in crape, still carrying her abominable camp-stool. Before

I could say a word in remonstrance, six men in green baize aprons

staggered in with my sideboard, and Mrs. Badgery suddenly disappeared. 208

Had they trampled her under foot, or crushed her in the doorway?

Though not an inhuman man by nature, I asked myself those questions quite composedly. No very long time elapsed before they were prac­

tically answered in the negative by the reappearance of Mrs. Badgery herself, in a perfectly unruffled condition of chronic grief. In the course of the day I had my toes trodden on, I was knocked about by my own furniture, the six men in baize aprons dropped all sorts of small articles over me in going up and down stairs; but Mrs. Badgery escaped unscathed. Every time I thought she had been turned out of the house she proved, on the contrary, to be groaning close behind me. She wept over Mr, Badgery’s memory in every room, perfectly un­ disturbed to the last, by the chaotic confusion of moving in. I am not sure, but I think she brought a tin box of sandwiches with her, and celebrated a tearful pic-nic of her own in the groves of my front garden, I say I am not sure of this; but I am positively certain that

I never entirely got rid of her all day; and I know to my cost that she insisted on making me as well acquainted with Mr. Badgery’s fav­ ourite notions and habits as I am with my own. It may interest the reader if I report that my taste in carpets is not equal to Mr,

Badgery’s; that my ideas on the subject of servants’ wages are not so generous as Mr, Badgery’s; and that I ignorantly persisted in placing a sofa in the position which Mr. Badgery, in his time, considered to be particularly fitted for an arm-chair, I could go nowhere, look nowhere, do nothing, say nothing, all that day, without bringing the widowed incubus in the crape garments down upon me immediately. I 209

tried civil remonstrances, I tried rude speeches, I tried sulky

silence—nothing had the least effect on her. The memory of Mr.

Badgery was the shield of proof with which she warded off my fiercest

attacks. Not till the last article of furniture had been moved in,

did I lose sight of her; and even then she had not really left the

house. One of my six men in green baize aprons routed her out of the

back-garden area, where she was telling my servants, with floods of

tears, of Mr, Badgery*s virtuous strictness with his housemaid in the

natter of followers, My admirable man in green baize courageously

saw her out, and shut the garden-door after her. I gave him half-a-

crown on the spot; and if anything happens to him, I am ready to make

the future prosperity of his fatherless family my own peculiar care.

The next day was Sunday. I attended morning service at my new

parish church. A popular preacher had been announced, and the build­

ing was crowded, I advanced a little way up the nave, and looked to

ray right, and saw no room. Before I could look to my leftj I felt a

hand laid persuasively on my arm. I turned round—and there was Mrs.

Badgery, with her pew-door open, solemnly beckoning me in. The crowd

had closed up behind me; the eyes of a dozen members of the congre­

gation, at least, were fixed on me. I had no choice but to save appearances, and accept the dreadful invitation. There was a vacant

place next to the door of the pew. I tried to drop into it, but Mrs.

Badgery stopped me. "His seat,” she whispered, and signed to me to

place myself on the other side of her. It is unnecessary to say that

I had to climb over a hassock, and that I knocked down all Mrs. Badg- 210

ery’s devotional books before I succeeded in passing between her and

the front of the pew. She cried uninterruptedly through the service;

composed herself when it was over; and began to tell me what Mr.

Badgery’s opinions had been on points of abstract theology. Fortun­ ately there was great confusion and crowding at the door of the church; and I escaped, at the hazard of my life, by running round the back of the carriages. I passed the interval between the services alone in the fields, being deterred from going home by the fear that

Mrs, Badgery might have got there before me.

Monday came. I positively ordered my servants to let no lady in deep mourning pass inside the garden-door, without first consulting me. After that, feeling tolerably secure, I occupied myself in arranging my books and prints. I had not pursued this employment much more than an hour, when one of the servants burst excitably into the room, and informed me that a lady in deep mourning had been taken faint, just outside my door, and had requested leave to come in and sit down for a few moments. I ran down the garden-path to bolt the door, and arrived just in time to see it violently pushed open by an officious and sympathising crowd. They drew away on either side as they saw me. There she was, leaning on the grocer’s shoulder, with the butcher’s boy in attendance, carrying her camp-stool! Leaving my servants to do what they liked with her, I ran back and locked myself up in my bedroom. When she evacuated the premises, some hours afterwards, I received a message of apology, informing me that this particular Monday was the sad anniversary of her wedding-day, and that 211

she had been taken faint, in consequence, at the sight of her lost

husband’s house,

Tuesday forenoon passed away happily, without any new invasion.

After lunch, I thought I would go out and take a walk. My garden-

door has a sort of peep-hole in it, covered with a wire grating. As

I got close to this grating, I thought I saw something mysteriously

dark on the outer side of it. X bent my head down to look through,

and instantly found myself face to face with the crape veil. "Sweet,

sweet spot!" said the muffled voice, speaking straight into my eyes

through the grating. The usual groans followed, and the name of Mr.

Badgery was plaintively pronounced before I could recover myself

sufficiently to retreat to the house,

Wednesday is the day on which I am writing this narrative. It

is not twelve o'clock yet, and there is every probability that some new form of sentimental persecution is in store for me before the

evening. Thus far, these lines contain a perfectly true statement of Mrs. Badgery’s conduct towards me since I entered on the posses­ sion of my house and her shrine. What am I to do?—that is the point I wish to insist on—what am I to do? How am I to get away from the memory of Mr, Badgery, arri the unappeasable grief of his disconsolate widow? Any other species of invasion it is possible to resist; but how is a man placed in my unhappy and unparalleled cir­ cumstances to defend himself? I can’t keep a dog ready to fly at

Mrs. Badgery. I can’t charge her at a police-court with being oppressively fond of the house in which her husband died. I can’t 212

set man-traps for a woman, or prosecute a weeping widow as a tres­ passer and a nuisance. I am helplessly involved in the unrelaxing folds of Mrs. Badgery's crape veil. Surely there was no exaggeration in my language when I said that I was a sufferer under a perfectly new grievancel Can anybody advise me? Has anybody had even the faintest and remotest experience of the peculiar form of persecution under which I am now suffering? If nobody has, is there any legal gentleman in the united kingdom who can answer the all-important question which appears at the head of this narrative? I began by asking that question because it was uppermost in my mind. It is uppermost in my mind still, and I therefore beg leave to conclude appropriately by asking it again:

Is there any law in England which will protect me from Mrs.

Badgery?

S' / Y 213

"Pray Employ Ma jor Nambyl ” All the Year Round, I (June 4, 1859), 136-41

I have such an extremely difficult subject to write about,

that I really don’t know how to begin. The fact is, I am a single

lady—single, you will please to understand, entirely because I have

refused many excellent offers. Pray don’t imagine from this that I

am old. Some women’s offers come at long intervals, and other

women's offers come close together. Mine came remarkably close to­

gether—so, of course, I cannot possibly be old. Not that I presume

to describe myself as absolutely young, either; so much depends on

people's points of view, I have heard female children of the ages

of eighteen or nineteen called young ladies. This seems to me to be

ridiculous—and I have held that opinion, without once wavering from

it, for more than ten years past. It is, after all, a question of

feeling; and, shall I confess it? I feel so young!

Dear, dear me! this is dreadfully egotistical; and, besides,

it is not in the least what I want. May I be kindly permitted to

begin again?

The European war (now I have got the right end of the thread at last) alarms me inexpressibly, of course. And yet, strange as it may seem, it is not my alarm exactly that sets me writing at the present moment, I am urged, rather, by a feeling of curiosity to know if England is. likely on some future day to join in the fighting.

Some of the papers say one thing, and some say the other. If England is not likely to join in the fighting, then I have nothing more to 214

write about. But, if the chances are all the other way, and if we

■catch the war-fever in our turn, then what I want to know (with many

apologies for asking the question) is, whether my next door neighbour,

Major Namby, will be taken from his home by the Horse Guards, and

presented with his fit post of command in the English army. It will

come out, sooner or later; so there is no harm in my acknowledging at

once, that it would add immeasurably to my comfort and happiness if

the gallant major were ordered off on any service which would take

him away from his own house.

I am really very sorry, but I must leave off beginning already,

and go tack again to the part before the beginning (if there is such

a thing), in order to explain the nature of my objection to Major

Namby, and why it would be such a great relief to me (supposing we

are unfortunate enough to be dragged into this dreadful Bar), if he

happened to be one of the first officers called out for the service

of his Queen and country,

I live in the suburbs, and I have bought my house. The major

lives in the suburbs, next door to me, and he has bought his house.

I don’t object to this, of course. I merely mention it to make things

straight.

Major Namby has been twice married. His first wife—dear, dearl how can I express it? Shall I say, with vulgar abruptness, that

his first wife had a family? And must I descend into particulars, and add that they are four in number, and that two of them are twins?

Well, the words are written; and if they will do over again for the 215

same purpose, I beg to repeat them in reference to the second Mrs.

Namby (still alive), who has also had a family, and is—-no, I really

cannot say, is likely to go on having one. There are certain limits,

in a case of this kind, and I think I have reached them. Permit me

simply to state that the second Mrs. Namby has three children, at

present. These, with the first Mrs, Namby*s four, make a total of

seven. The seven are composed of five girls and two boys. And the

first Mrs. Namby*s family all have one particular kind of constitution,

and the second Mrs. Namby*s family all have another particular kind

of constitution. Let me explain once more that I merely mention these

little matters, and that I don’t object to them.

Now pray be patients I am coming fast to the point—I am indeed.

But please let me say a little word or two about Major Namby himself.

In the first place, I have looked out his name in the Army List, and

I cannot find that he was ever engaged in battle anywhere. He appears

to have entered the army, most unfortunately for his own renown, just after, instead of just before, the battle of Waterloo. He has been at all sorts of foreign stations, at the very time, in each case, when there was no military work to do—-except once at some West Indian

Island, where he seems to have assisted in putting down a few poor unfortxinate negroes who tried to get up a riot. This is the only active service that he has ever performed: so I suppose it Is all owing to his being well off and to those dreadful abuses of oxirs that he has been made a major for not having done a major’s work. So far as looks go, however, he is military enough in appearance to take the 216

command of the British army at five minutes’ notice. He is very tall

and upright, and carries a martial cane, and wears short martial

whiskers, and has an awfully loud martial voice. His face is very

pink, and his eyes are extremely round and staring, and he has that

singularly disagreeable-looking roll of fat red flesh at the back of

his neck, between the bottom of his short grey hair and the top of

his stiff black stock, which seems to be peculiar to all hearty old

officers who are remarkably well to do in the world. He is certainly

not more than sixty years of age; and, if a lady may presume to judge

of such a thing, I should say decidedly that he had an immense amount

of undeveloped energy still left in him, at the service of the Horse

Guards,

This undeveloped energy—and here, at length, I come to the

point—not having any employment in the right direction, has run wild

in the wrong direction, and has driven the major to devote the whole

of his otherwise idle time to his domestic affairs. He manages his

children instead of his regiment, and establishes discipline in the

servants’-hall instead of in the harrack-yard. Have I any right to

object to this? None whatever, I readily admit. I my hear (most unwillingly) that Major Namby has upset the house by going into the kitchen and objecting to the smartness of the servants’ caps; but as

I am not, thank Heaven, one of those unfortunate servants, I am not called on to express my opinion of such unmanly meddling, much as I . scorn it. I may be informed (entirely against my own will) that Mrs,

Namby’s husband has dared to regulate, not only the size and substance, 217

but even the number, of certain lower and inner articles of Mrs, Nam­

by’s dress, which no earthly consideration will induce me particularly

to describe; but as I do not (I thank Heaven again) occupy the degraded

position of the major’s wife, I am not justified in expressing my in­

dignation at domestic prying and petti-fogging, though I feel it all

over me, at this very moment, from head to foot. What Major Namby

does and says, inside his own house, is his business and not mine.

But what he does and says outside his own house, on the gravel walk

of his front garden, under my own eyes and close to my own ears, as I

sit at work at the window, is as much my affair as the major’s, and

more, for it is I who suffer by it.

Pardon me a momentary pause for relief, a momentary thrill of

self-congratulation, I have got to my grievance at last--I have taken

the right literary turning at the end of the preceding paragraph; and

the fair, straight high-road of plain narrative now spreads engagingly

before me.

• My complaint against Major Namby is, in plain terms, that he

transacts the whole of his domestic business in his front garden.

Whether it arises from natural weakness of memory, from total want

of a sense of propriety, or from a condition of mind which is closely allied to madness of the eccentric sort, I cannot say, but the major

certainly does sometimes partially, and sometimes entirely, forget his private family natters, and the necessary directions connected with them, while he is inside the house, and does habitually remember them, and repair all omissions, by bawling through his windows, at the top 218

of his voice, as soon as he gets outside the house. It never seems

to occur to him that he might advantageously return in-doors, and

there mention what he has forgotten in a private and proper way.

The instant the lost idea strikes him—which it invariably does,

either in his front garden, or in the roadway outside his house—he roars for his wife, either from the gravel walk, or over the low wall and (if I may use so strong an expression) empties his mind to her in public, without appearing to care whose ears he wearies, whose delicacy he shocks, or whose ridicule he invites. If the man is not mad, his own snail family fusses have taken such complete possession of all his senses, that he is quite incapable of noticing anything else, and perfectly impenetrable to the opinions of his neighbours.

Let me show that the grievance of which I complain is no slight one, by giving a few examples of the general persecution that I suffer, and the occasional shocks that are administered to my delicacy, at the coarse hands of Major Namby,

We will say it is a fine warm morning. I am sitting in my front room, with the window open, absorbed over a deeply interesting book. I hear the door of the next house bang; I look up, and see the major descending the steps into his front garden.

He walks—no, he marches—half way down the front garden path, with his head high in the air, and his chest stuck out, and his military cane fiercely flourished in his right hand. Suddenly, he stops, stamps with one foot, knocks up the hinder part of the brim of his extremely curly hat with his left hand, and begins to scratch 219

at that singularly disagreeable-looking roll of fat red flesh in the

back of his neck (which scratching, I may observe, in parenthesis,

is always a sure sign, in the case of this horrid man, that a lost

domestic idea has suddenly come back to him). He waits a moment in

the ridiculous position just described, then wheels round on his heel,

looks up at the first-floor window, and, instead of going back into

the house to mention what he has forgotten, bawls out fiercely from

the middle of the walk:

"Matilda!"

I hear his wife's voice—a shockingly shrill one; but what can you expect of a woman who has been seen, over and over again, in a

slatternly striped wrapper, as late as two o’clock in the afternoon

—I hear his wife’s voice answer from inside the house:

"Yes, dear."

"I said it was a south wind,"

"Yes, dear,"

"It isn’t a south wind."

"Lor’, dear!"

"It’s sou’-east, I won’t have Georgina taken out to-day."

(Georgina is one of the first Mrs. Hamby's family, and they are all weak in the chest.) "Where’s nurse?"

"Here, sir!"

"Nurse, I won’t have Jack allowed to run. Whenever that boy perspires, he catches cold. Hang up his hoop. If he cries, take him into my dressing-room, and show him the birch rod. Matilda!" 220

"Yes, dear."

"What the devil do they mean by daubing all that grease over

Mary's hair? It’s beastly to see it—do you hear?—beastly! Where’s

Fhmby?" (Pamby is the unfortunate work-woman who makes and mends the

family linen.)

"Here, sir."

"Pamby, what are you about now?"

No answer, Pamby, or somebody else, giggles faintly, The major flourishes his cane in a fury.

"Why the devil don’t you answer me? I give you three seconds

to answer me, or leave the house. One—two—three. Pamby! what are

you about now?"

"If you please, sir, I’m doing something-----

'"What?" .

"Something particular for baby, sir?"

"Drop it directly, whatever it is. Matilda! how many pair of trousers has Katie got?"

"Only three, dear,"

"Pamby!"

"Yes, sir."

"Shorten all Miss Katie’s trousers directly, including the pair she’s got on. I’ve said, over and over again, that I won’t have those frills of hers any lower down then her knees. Don’t let me see. them at the middle of her shins again. Nurse!"

"Yes, Sir." 221

"Mind the crossings. Don’t let the children sit down if they’re hot. Don’t let them speak to other children. Don't let them get playing with strange dogs. Don’t let them mess their things. And, above all, don’t bring Master Jack hack in a perspiration. Is there anything more, before I go out?"

"No, sir."

"Matilda! Is there anything more?"

"No, dear."

"Pamby, is there anything more?"

"No, sir."

Here the domestic colloquy ends, for the time being. Will any sensitive person—especially a person of my own sex—please to imagine what I must suffer, as a delicate single lady, at having all these family details obtruded on my attention, whether I like it or not, in the major’s rasping, martial voice, and in the shrill answering screams of the women inside? It is tad enough to be submitted to this sort of persecution when one is alone; but it is far worse to be also ex­ posed to it—as I am constantly—in the presence of visitors, whose conversation is necessarily interrupted, whose ears are necessarily shocked, whose very stay in.my house is necessarily shortened by

Major Namby’s unendurably public way of managing his private concerns.

Only the other day, my old, dear, and most valued friend, Lady

Malkinshaw, was sitting with me,, and was entering at great length into the interesting story of her second daughter’s unhappy marriage engage­ ment, and of the dignified manner in which the family ultimately broke 222 it off. For a quarter of an hour or so our interview continued to be delightfully uninterrupted. At the end of that time, however, just as Lady Malkinshaw, with the tears in her eyes, was beginning to describe the effect of her daughter’s dreadful disappointment on the poor dear girl’s mind and looks, I heard the door of the major’s house bang as usual; and, looking out of the window in despair, saw the major himself strut halfway down the walk, stop, scratch violently at his roll of red flesh, wheel round so as to face the house, consider a little, pull his tablets out of his waistcoat-pocket, shake his head over them, and then look up at the front windows, preparatory to bawl­ ing as usual at the degraded female members of his household. Lady

Malkinshaw, quite ignorant of what was coming, happened, at the same moment, to be proceeding with her pathetic story, in these terms:

"I do assure you, my poor dear girl behaved throughout with the heroism of a martyr. When I had told her of the vile wretch’s behaviour, breaking it to her as gently as I possibly could; and when she had a little recovered, I said to her------

("Matilda!")

The major's rasping voice sounded louder than ever, as he bawled out that dreadful name, just at the wrong moment. Lady Malkin­ shaw started as if she had been shot. I put down the window in despair; but the glass was no protection to our ears—Major Namby can roar through a brick wall, I apologised--I declared solemnly that ■ my next door neighbour was mad—I entreated lady Malkinshaw to take no notice, and to go on. That sweet woman immediately complied, I 223

burn with indignation when I think of what followed. Every word from

the Nambys' garden (which I distinguish below by parentheses) came, very, slightly muffled by the window, straight into my room, and mixed

itself up with her ladyship's story in this inexpressibly ridiculous and impertinent manner:

"Well," my kind and valued friend proceeded, "as I was telling you, when the first natural burst of sorrow was over, I said to her-—

"Yes, dear Lady Malkinshaw?" I murmured, encouragingly.

"I said to her------"

("By jingo, I’ve forgotten something! Matilda! when I made my memorandum of errands, how many had I to do?")

"’My dearest, darling child,* I said —---- •"

("Pamby! how many errands did your mistress give me to do?")

"I said, ’my dearest, darling child------

("Nurse! how mny errands did your mistress give me to do?")

"’My own love,’ I said-----

("Poohl poohl I tell you, I had four errands to do, and.I've only got three of ’em written down. Check me off, all of you-—I’m going to read my errands,")

'"Your own proper pride, love,' I said, 'will suggest to you—5"

("Grey powder for baby.")

---"'the necessity of making up your mind, my angel, to------

("Row the plumber for infamous condition of back kitchen sink.")

---- "'to return all the wretch's letters, and— 224

("Speak to the haberdasher about patching Jack's shirts.")

---- "’all his letters and presents, darling. You need only make

them up into a parcel, and write inside------

("Matildal is that all?")

---- "’and write inside------’”

("Pambyt is that all?")

---- "’and write inside------

("Nurse! is that all?")

"’I have my mother’s sanction for making one last request to you. It is this—-----

("What have the children got for dinner today?")

---- "'it is this: Return me my letters, as I have returned yours. You will find inside——

("A shoulder of mutton and onion sauce? And a devilish good dinner, too.")

The coarse wretch roared out those last shocking words cheer­ fully, at the top of his voice. Hitherto, Lady Malkinshaw had pre­ served her temper with the patience of an angel; but she began—and who can wonder?—to lose it, at last,

"It is really impossible, my dear," she said, rising from her chair, "to continue any conversation while that very intolerable person persists in talking to his family from his front garden. No!

I really cannot.go on—I cannot, indeed." •

Just as I was apologising to my sweet friend for the second time, I observed,to my great relief (having my eye still on the window), 225

that the odious major had apparently come to the end of his domestic

business for that morning, and had made up his mind at last to relieve

us of his presence. I distinctly saw him put his tablets back in his

pocket, wheel round again on his heel, and march straight to the

garden gate. I waited until he had his hand on the lock to open it;

and then, when I felt that we were quite safe, I informed dear Lady

Malkinshaw that my detestable neighbour had at last taken himself off,

and, throwing open the window again to get a little air, begged and

entreated her to oblige me by resuming the charming conversation,

"Where was I?" inquired my distinguished friend.

"You were telling me what you recommended your poor darling to write inside her enclosure," I answered.

"Ah, yes—so I Tías, Well, my dear, she controlled herself by an admirable effort, and wrote exactly what I told her. You will ex­

cuse a mother’s partiality, I am sure—but I think I never saw her look

so lovely—so mournfully lovely, I should say—as when she .was writing those last lines to the man who had so basely trifled with her. The tears came into my eyes as I looked at her sweet pale cheeks; and I thought to myself------"

("Nurse! which of the children was sick, last time, after eating onion sauce?")

He had come back again!—the monster had come back again, from the very threshold of the garden, gate, to shout that unwarrantably , atrocious question in at his nursery windowl

Lady Malkinshaw bounced off her chair at the first note of his 226

horrible voice, and changed towards me instantly—as if it had been

my fault! --in the most alarming and unexpected manner, Her lady­

ship’s face became awfully red; her ladyship’s head trembled exces­

sively; her ladyship’s eyes looked straight into mine with an indes­

cribable fierceness.

"Why am I thus insulted?" inquired Lady Malkinshaw, with a slow

and dignified sternness which froze the blood in my veins. "What do

you mean by it?" continued her ladyship, with a sudden rapidity of

utterance that quite took my breath away.

Before I could remonstrate with my friend for visiting her

natural irritation on poor innocent me: before I could declare that

I had seen the major actually open his garden gate to go away, the

provoking brute’s voice burst in on us again.

"Ha! yes?" we heard him growl to himself, in a kind of shame­ less domestic soliloquy. "Yes, yes, yes-—Sophy was sick, to be sure.

Curious. All Mrs. Namby’s step-children have weak chests and strong

stomachs. All Mrs. Namby’s own children have weak stomachs and strong

chests. I have a strong stomach and a strong chest,---- Pamby!"

"I consider this," continued Lady Malkinshaw, literally glaring at me, in the fulness of her indiscriminate exasperation—"I consider this to be unwarrantable and unladylike, I beg to know------"

"Where’s Bill?" burst in the major, from below, before she could add another word. "Matilda! Nurse! ■ Pamby! where’s Bill? I didn’t bid Bill good-by---- hold him up at the window, one of you!"

"My dear Lady Malkinshaw," I remonstrated, "why blame me? 227

What have I done?"

"Donel" repeated her ladyship. "Done?—all that is most un­

friendly, most unwarrantable, most unladylike, most------"

"Hal hal ha-a~a-al" roared the major, shouting her ladyship

down, and stamping about the garden in fits of fond paternal laughter.

"Bill, my boy, how are you? There’s a young Turk for youl Pull up

his frock—I want to see his jolly legs------"

lady Malkinshaw screamed, and rushed to the door, I sank into

a chair, and clasped my hands in despair.

"Hal hal ha-a-a-al What calves the dog's gotl Pambyl look

at his calves, Ahal bless his heart, his legs are the model of his

father’s! The Namby build, Matildas the Namby build, every inch of

him. Kick again, Bill—kick out, like mad. I say, ma’am! I beg

your pardon, ma ’am!------"

* Ma ’am? I ran to the window. Was the major actually daring to

address Lady Malkinshaw, as she passed, indignantly, on her way out,

down my front garden? He was, the odious monster was pointing, out

his—his, what shall I say? —his undraped offspring to the notice

of my outraged visitor,

"Look at him, ma’am. If you're a judge of children, look at

him. There's a two-year-older for you! Ha, hal ha-a-a-a, Show the

lady your legs, Bill—kick out for the lady, you dog, kick out!"

I can write no more: I have done great violence to myself in

writing so much. Further specimens of the daily outrages Inflicted

on me by my next door neighbour (though I could add them by dozens), 228

could do but little more to illustrate the intolerable nature of the

grievance of which I complain. Although lady Malkinshaw’s naturally

fine sense of justice suffered me to call and remonstrate the day after

she left my house; although we are now faster friends than ever, how

can I expect her ladyship to visit me again, after the reiterated

insults to which she was exposed on the last occasion of her esteemed

presence under ray roof? How can I ask my niece—a young person who

has been most carefully brought up—to come and stay with me, when I

know that she will be taken into the major’s closest domestic confi­

dence on the first morning of her arrival, whether she likes it or

not?

There is something absolutely dreadful in reflecting on the

daily recurrence of this entirely new species of nuisance, and on

the utter hopelessness of finding any remedy against it. The law of

the land contains no provision against the habitual management of a wife and family in a front garden. Private remonstrance addressed

to a man so densely impenetrable to a sense of propriety as the major, would only expose me to ridicule, and perhaps to insult, I can’t leave my house, for it exactly suits me, and I have bought it. The major

can’t leave his house, for it exactly suits him, and he has bought it.

There is actually no remedy possible, but the forcible removal of my military neighbour from his home; and there is but one power in the country which is strong enough to accomplish that removal—the Horse

Guards. PART III: AFTERWORD

Collins quickly reached his most productive years as a writer of short subjects for Household Words after he was given a salaried staff position in 1856. By actual count Wilkie contributed more articles during these three years, from 1856 through 1859. than the editor-in-chief himself. 0 This indicates that Wilkie was accepted into the relative security of Household Words1 circle and that Dickens began to rely upon Collins as a major contributor for his periodical.

No doubt Dickens was grateful to Wilkie for relieving him of a great part of the pressured responsibility of writing articles during these three years because this was the period of Dickens’ growing estrange­ ment from his wife. Finally in May I858, the separation was completed.

Out of this private matter there arose between him and his publishers,

Bradbury and Evans, certain differences of opinion. These led to negotiations and resulted ultimately in Dickens' decision to wind up

Household Words and start All the Year Round in its place.

By the beginning of the new decade, All the Year Round had been in circulation for half a year and Collins* most productive period as a writer of short articles had passed. Several events explain the passing of this apprenticeship. First of all, the serialization of

The Woman in White, beginning in All the Year Round late in 1859 and continuing through the following year, established Collins as a novelist, and it also did much to establish the magazine in which it appeared. Collins himself was always more interested in writing 230

novels; now that he had gained recognition in this area and popular

reading taste was turning toward the longer form, both Dickens and

he concentrated upon writing novels for serialization in All the Year

Round. When either one had a novel appearing in the journal,

circulation was always quite high; in fact, the highest circulation

peaks coincided with the appearance of The Woman in White and The

Moonstone-—an accomplishment to which many critics attribute a jealousy

on the part of Dickens resulting in his last effort to write a mystery

that would surpass Collins’ success with the editor-in-chief's reading public.169 Dickens never realized this goal because he died in June,

1870, before completing The Mystery of Edwin Drood.

The influence from this period of short periodical writing can best be measured by looking for the subtle yet no less important techniques that were effectively blended into Collins' two best known novels. One of the most important ideas Collins cultivated was to ground his writing in common, everyday occurrences. There are many domestic scenes in The Woman in White in which Marian Holcombe records the courtship of her half-sister, Laura Fairlie, with Walter Hartright.

The novel is thoroughly grounded in a domestic situation before mystery and suspense are developed. Laura Fairlie finds herself in an unjust dilemma, typical for many young Victorian women, in that she is required to give her family inheritance to her husband once she marries.

This problem is similar to the minor and often overlooked social injustices that Collins wrote about in his short essays, although he does not allow The Woman in White to become a social protest novel. 231

The presentation of Laura’s predicament evidences his awareness and

desire to make his novel more than just a suspense-filled mystery.

Directly associated with the domestic scene and its importance

is the point of view from which it is related and developed. The

attention Collins gave to creating a plausible point of view from

which his essays, sketches, or stories were narrated carried over

into his best novels, Marian Holcombe, from whose point of view (and diary) a large portion of The Woman in White is related consistently

remains a vivacious spinster while retaining a keen sense of humor that enables her to candidly admit her idiosyncracies (and those whom she loves) and to laugh good-naturedly at them. Gabriel Betteredge, the loyal old servant from The Moonstone, again demonstrates how

Collins takes a character from the commonplace and everyday (as he observed in "Laid Up in Two Lodgings") and develops a quaint humorous narrator whose guide for conduct and virtue comes from his dog-eared copy of Robinson Crusoe. The philosophical simplicity of this loyal retainer relieves much of the oppressive suspense and mystery that accumulates around the missing moonstone and dark scenes in opium dens or desolate beaches. Other character sketches such as Miss

Drueilia Clack also help to pace the high emotional intensity in the novel through her meddling evangelical tract distributing. In the tradition of Mrs. Badgery and the spinster in "Pray Employ Major

Namby," Miss Clack demonstrates how Collins can make his middle-class reader laugh at her exaggerated behavior and at the same time condemn a concept that many of these same Victorians heartily supported. 232

Although Dickens never publicly praised Collins as an important

contributor for Household Words, he doubtless knew that Collins

played a key role in retaining the "elegance of fancy" upon which the

editor insisted. When other writers such as Percy Fitzgerald

complained "that everything in the magazine had to be exaggerated and colored for effect so that it bubbled like champayne,"^7° Collins

continued to support the editor-in-chief by producing novels that

contained both the light and dark from his imagination. In paying

tribute to his close friend and fellow journalist, Douglas Jerrold,

Collins comes closest to defining his relationship to Dickens and his periodicals.

His (Jerrold1s] wit flashed out at its brightest, in those well timed paragraphs and short articles which hit the passing of the day, and which, so far as their temporary purpose with the public is concerned, are all-important ingredients in the success of such a periodical as Punch. A contributor who can strike out new ideas from original resources of his own is one man, and a contributor who can be depended on for the small workaday emergencies which are felt one week and forgotten the next, is generally another. Jerrold united these two characters in himself; and the value to him on Punch, on that account only, can never be too highly estimated.

If one can insert Collins' name for Jerrold and Household

Words for Punch, it seems as though the author not only described his periodical apprenticeship quite accurately but also revealed how important it was to the success of Dickens' journals. FOOTNOTES

Charles Dickens was editor of the following periodicals: Bentley's Miscellany, 1837-39» Master Humphrey's Clock, 1840-41; Household Words, 1850-59; and All the Year Round, 1859-70. He also edited the Daily News for a brief period. 2 On May 21, 1861, Dickens wrote Bulwer-Lytton that the sale of All the Year Round was "probably several thousand higher" than that of the Times. Walter Dexter, ed., The Letters of Charles Dickens, The Nonesuch Dickens (London, 1938)» II, 218. 3 ^English Literary Periodicals (New York, 1930), 296. ^Ibid., 296.

5Ibid., 297.

6Ibid.. 297.

'Frederick Hudson, Journalism in America from I69O-I872 (New York, 1873), 664. Q The Pickwick Papers, The Nonesuch Dickens (London, 1937), xv-xvi. 9J ames Grant, The Newspaper Press (London, I87I), II, 81-82.

^Letters, Nonesuch, I, 218.

^"A Preliminary Word," Household Words, I (March 30, 1850), 1. 12 Letters, Nonesuch, I, 202, 13"a Preliminary Word," 1. 14 Ibid., 1. ^A/ith the New Year of I85O, Dickens began to bombard Forster with titles: The Robin, Mankind, Charles Dickens: A Weekly Journal designed for the instruction and entertainment of all classes of readers: Conducted by Himself, The Household Voice, The Household Guest, The Household Face, The Comrade, The Microscope, The Highway of Life, The Lever, The Rolling Years, The Holly Tree, and finally Household Words. This was chosen as the rane, with a motto adapted from Shakespeare: "Familiar in their mouths as Household Words." Letters, Nonesuch, II, 202. ^6"a Preliminary Word,” 1. 234

17 'Letters, Nonesuch, II, 216, l8Ibid., 216,

^9''The Schoolmaster at Home-Abroad" points out that in the whole of Northern Europe "one child in every 2-^ of the population" received "the rudiments of knowledge; while in England there is only one pupil to every fourteen inhabitants." Household Words, I (April 20. 1850). 82. 20 "Health by Act of Parliament" supports London's inclusion within the Public Health Act. Household Words, I (August 10, I85O), 460. 21 "Ground in the Mill" contains detailed accounts of dozens of hideous deaths and mutilations. Household Words, IX (April 22, 1854), 224. "Fencing with Humanity" reveals a Manufacturer’s Association to defy laws and pay fines for such accidents. Household Words, XI (April 14, I855), 241. 22 Edgar Johnson, Charles Dickens His Tragedy and Triumph (New York, 1952), I, 717.

c-William Henry Wills was the sub-editor or assistant editor to both journals. He had served as Dickens’ secretary when the latter was the editor of the Daily News for a short period of time in 1846, Edgar Johnson accurately describes Wills as "a steel spring of inde­ fatigable energy .... His faithfulness and sharp efficiency made him an excellent man to handle the business part of the publication." Charles Dickens His Tragedy and Triumph, II, 702, 2V C. Lehmann, ed,, Charles Dickens as Editor; Being Letters by Him to William Henry Wills, His Sub-Editor (New York, 1912)™ 87. 2^Letiers, Nonesuch, II, 5^8. ^^Lehmann, Dickens as Editor, 68.

2?Ibid., 168-9, 28 John Forster, The Life of Charles Dickens, ed., J.W.T.Ley (London, 1928), 824. ^Lehmann, Dickens as Editor,. 154.

^Despite his rather foreboding, dictatorial pose as "Conductor," Dickens encouraged many new as well as established writers to con­ tribute to his journal. Of course, Wilkie Collins must be placed first on this list in the group known as "Dickens' young men." (Hope- 235

fully by the end of this study, the reader will have no question regarding the validity of this statement which seems overly subjec­ tive on the part of the author at this particular moment.) Among others in this circle who made their start in literature or journalism through Dickens’ encouragement were: George Augustus Saia, Edmund Yates, James Payn, Percy Fitzgerald. Other contributors included Wilkie Collins’ gifted brother (who became Dickens' son-in-law) Charles Allston Collins, Georgiana Craik (Mrs. Mulock), William Hepworth Dixon, James Hannay, William and Mary Howitt, Charles Knight, Elizabeth Lynn (Later Mrs. Lynn Linton), Sheridan LeFanu, Charles Mackay, Coventry Patmore, Adelaide Anne Proctor, William Moy Thomas, and Chauncey Hare Townshend. Dickens was among the first to recognise the genius of George Eliot, and he tried, in vain to persuade her to write a serial for him. Among the authors already having established their reputations who appeared in his journal were Charles Lever, Bulwer Lytton, Charles Reade, and Thoms Adolophus Trollope, Johnson, Charles Dickens His Tragedy and Triumph, II, 713. ^Gerald Giles Grubb, "The Editorial Policies of Charles Dickens," HILA, LVIII (December, 1943), 1110, ^The "Contributors Book" or "Office Book" was kept by Wills in which he identified the author and the amount paid for each article. This ledger is now in the Princeton University Archives,

33Letters, Nonesuch, II, 202. 34 ^Lehmann, Dickens as Editor, 102. 35Ibid., 49.

■^Grubbs, "The Editorial Policies," 1113.

^Lehmann, Dickens as Editor, 43. 38Ibid,, 170.

39Ibidt, 171. 40 Harry Stone has recently edited a two volume study called Charles Dickens' Uncollected Writings from 'Household Words' 1850-1859. (Bloomington, Indiana, 1968) in which he identifies, defines, and classifies Dickens' composite writings. The three major categories are as follows: (1) articles which were planned from their inception as joint efforts, (2) substantially modified pieces not originally intended as joint composition, (3) "original or initial version so tad or dull or slack or long or technical or ill written or otherwise unsuitable as to require drastic surgery or restitching." 45-8, 236

^The Critic, XII (August 1?, 1889), 89. ho Letters, Nonesuch, II, 419. 43Ibid., 335.

^Letters, Nonesuch, III, 63. 45 ^Letiers, Nonesuch, II, 250. ^Ibid., 228,

47 ^Gerald Giles Grubb, "Dickens Editorial Methods," Studies in Philology, XL (1943), 81. ^Letters, Nonesuch, III, 151-2.

49 Letters, Nonesuch, II, 480, 5°Ibid., 480,

^After Dickens asked her in his letter of January 23, 1850, (see page 6) to become a contributor, she immediately undertook the writing of a story for the journal. Her manuscript was among the first to reach Dickens and was entitled "Lizzie Leigh," Dickens did very little editing of this story although he remarked to Wills that "it was very good, but long” and would "require to be printed in three or four numbers," Letters, Nonesuch, II, 207. In another instance Mrs. Gaskell submitted a ghost story to Dickens, which she had titled "The Old Nurses Story." Dickens eventually incorporated this story in the 1852 Christmas Number of Household Words, but not until he had drastically altered the ending. He sent her the edited proof for her approvel, accompanied by the following note, which again illustrates his tactful, editorial method,

"I send you the proof of ’The Old Nurses Story’ with my proposed alteration, I shall be glad to know whether you approve of it. To assist you in your decision, I send you, also inclosed, the original one, where alteration begins. Of course if you wish to enlarge, explain or realter, you will do it. Do not keep the proof longer than you can help, as I want to get to press with all dispatch," Letters, Nonesuch, II, 433,

The contents of this letter with its spirit of conciliation makes one aware that Dickens’ editorial method, exacting as it was, allowed for individual differences. 237

52Dickens comments upon Mrs. Gaskell*s writing problems in the following letter:

"The only place I do not see my way, and where the story always with a special eye to this form of publication seems to lag unmanage­ ably, without an amount of excision that I scarcely hint at, is between Nos, 2 and 3 where the dialogue is long . . . where, to bring the number out at once, I think there is a necessity for fusing two Nos. into one." Letters, Nonesuch, II, 5^2.

Dickens thought eight columns the correct length for a weekly portion of a short serial or novel. Specific elements within the weekly pattern were: (1) the scheme of the chapters, (2) the manner of intro­ ducing people, (3) the progress of interest, (4) the introduction of the principal places, (5) the early introduction of plot, and (6) the rapid movement of the story, Gerald Giles Grubbs, "Dickens’ Pattern of Weekly Serialization," Journal of English Literary History, IX (1942), 143. -^Letters, Nonesuch, II, 6l8-9.

5^Ibid., 646,

^"A Preliminary Word," 1, 56 Cocker was the author of a standard arithmetic book; Walkingame, of a "Tutor's Assistant." Lehmann, Dickens as Editor, 73. 57Ibid.. 73-4. rrQ 9 See Primary Bibliography — the first entry, 59 >7In the following year, I856, Collins wrote "John Steadiman's Account" of The Wreck of the Golden Mary and also "The Deliverance." In 1857» he wrote the second chapter of The Perils of Certain English Prisoners (the chapter being entitled "The Prison in the Woods." In the last Household Words Christnas Number (I858) — A House to Let -— he was the author of "Over the Way" and "Trottle’s Report" while he and Dickens collaborated in the final chapter, "Let at Last." His contributions to the All the Year Round Christmas Numbers were: to The Haunted House in 1859 "The Ghost in the Cupboard Room"; to A Message from the Sea, i860, "The Seafaring Man" and, in collab­ oration with Dickens, "The Money" and "The Restitution"5 to Tom Tiddler's Ground in l86l "Picking Up Waifs and Strays"; and he col­ laborated with Dickens in the last of the series — No Thoroughfare. — in I867, Collins’ contributions to these numbers contain the same elements that are found in the short fiction (to be discussed in the next major section of the introduction). For an exact line identi­ fication of the authors in these numbers consult Harry Stone’s study. (See the Selected Bibliography and footnote 40.) 238

uuMrs. Elizabeth Lynn Linton, a contemporary of Collins and Dickens, and a successful contributor to Household Words, left the following testimony regarding the relations of these two interesting men:

To Wilkie Collins he JpickensJ was a literary Mentor to a Young Telemachus, and he certainly counted for much in Wilkie’s future as a litterateur. I was told by one who knew, that he took unheard-of-pains with his younger friend’s first productions, and went over them line by line, correct­ ing, deleting, adding to, carefully as a conscientious schoolmaster dealing with the first essay of a promising scholar. My Literary Life (London, 1899), 71-2.

Hopefully the reader will be able to properly evaluate the significance of this statement after reading some of the correspond­ ences or their summaries which Dickens wrote to Collins and to Wills, If Dickens pruned Collins’ work as this account would lead the reader to believe, he certainly neglected to mention this in the letters, Mrs. Linton’s worshipful admiration revealed the common problem of placing Dickens in a realistic critical perspective without being overcome by the myth of this man, betters, Nonesuch, III, 177.

62 Letters, Nonesuch, II, 278. ^^J.W.T, Ley, The Dickens Circle (New York, 1919), 335.

64 Basil, a proud aristocrat’s son fell in love with a linen merchant’s daughter. He saw her on the omnibus and instantly loved her. Fearing to tell his father, he secretly married her and sur­ prised her in bed with her father’s chief clerk, a desperate enemy of the aristocrats and Basil’s family, (Critics, in the name of Victorian propriety, viciously attacked this morally degenerate episode,) Discovering the marriage, his father had turned his son out of the house, and Basil and his enemy waste the rest of their lives in a vendetta against each other. Although crime was the main interest in the story, there were definite overtones of con­ temporary manners particularly in the nouveau riche of the middle class.

83p,e tiers. Nonesuch, II, 436, 66Ibid., 436..

6?Ibid.t 445. /Q °°In rejecting this story Dickens set a precedent which would eventually lead to a rejection of other similar articles. (See Miss Barr on page 12.) 239

^Letters, Nonesuch, II, 447.

7°Ibid., 728.

71 The next section will concentrate on partial explication of the short fiction with limited reference and commentary on the historical sketch since both forms have common background sources. Stories included in this commentary are "Gabriel’s Marriage," "Sister Rose," "The Yellow Mask," "The Diary of Anne Rodway," "The Fourth Poor Traveller" or "A Stolen Letter" (Christmas Number, 1854), and "The Ostler" or "The Dream Woman" (Christmas Number, 1855). See Primary Bibliography for dates of publication and the installment number in Household Words. 72 Eric Bentley, "Melodrama" from The Life of the Drama (Atheneum, 1964), 197, ^^The short story "The Dead Alive" was first published in the American periodical The New York Fireside Companion in two install­ ments, December 29, 1878, and January 19, 1874, under the title "John Jago's Ghost." The second category was derived from a novel written by him which was entitled Hide and Seek (1852), ^"Gabriel's Marriage," Household Words, VII (April 14, 1855 Ì 150. 75 The high rate of coincidence will be discussed later in rela­ tion to the theme of fatality,

"The Yellow Mask," Household Words, XI (July 21, 1855), 592. 77Wilkie Collins, Basil, or A Story of Modern Life (London, 1852), 369. ?8"The Yellow Mask," 592.

79Ibid., 6ll.

80Ibid., 615,

81xNuel Pharr Davis, The Life of Wilkie Collins (Urbana, Illinois, I956), 279.

"The Ostler" from "The Holly-Tree Inn," Household Words, XII (Christmas, 1855), 16. /fhe Christmas Numbers were placed at the end.of their respective volumes and have separate pagination from the rest of the volume^// 83,,The Ostler," 17. 240

Ob "The Diary of Anne Rodway," Household Words. XIV (July 26, 1856), 32. Or ^Letters, Nonesuch, II, 825. 86Ibid.. 792.

8?"Preface" to Basil (London, 1852), 3» /The preface was an integral fart of the novel, according to Collins, and therefore was not numbered in Roman numberalsx7 88 Ibid., 6, 89 "The Diary of Anne Rodway," Household Words, XIV (July 19. 1956), 4-5. 9°Ibid., 6.

91"The Diary of Anne Rodway," XIV (July 26, I856), 31. 92 "Portrait of an Author; Painted by his Publisher,” All the Year Round, I (June 18, I859), I85. 9^The initial spark for Dusty Sal’s character probably resulted from a personal experience in Wilkie’s life which he had written of as part of the personal essay "Laid Up in Two Lodgings," published in Household Words one month, before Anne Rodway. In the following excerpt he became vociferous:

She looks very much surprised, poor creature, when I first let her see that I have other words to utter in addressing her besides the word of command; and seems to think me the most eccentric of mankind, when she finds that I have a decent anxiety to spare her all useless trouble in waiting on me. Young as she is, she has drudged so long over the dreariest ways of this world, without one leisure moment to look up from the everlasting dirt on the road at the green landscape around, and the pure sky above, that she has become hardened to the saddest, surely, of human lots before she is yet a woman grown. Life means dirty work, small wages, hard words, no holidays, no social station,' no future, according to her experience of it, No human being was ever created for this. No state of society which composedly accepts this, in the cases of thousands, as one of the necessary conditions of its. selfish comfort, can pass itself off as civilized, except under the most audacious of all false pretences. Household Words, XIII (June 14, I856), 521. 9%avis, The Life of Wilkie Collins, 115. 241

9^Davis, The Life of Wilkie Collins, 98. 96 Eventually Collins was to lighten the tone in using this form. For example, in "The Great (Forgotten) Invasion" there was a recruit­ ing of red petticoats from the wives of local British colliers who became military men after their colors were established "so far as external appearances viewed at a distance were concerned," (Household Words, XIX (March 12, 1859), 340.) The French were the potential invaders who viewed the "redcoats" from a distance. The moral of this sketch more than adequately captured the tone: If we are invaded again, and on a rather larger scale, let us not be so ill-prepared, this next time, as to be obliged to take refuge in our wives’ red petticoats." Household Words, XIX (March 12, 1859), 341. ""A Queen’s Revenge," Household Words, XVI (August 15, 1857), 157.

98Ibid.. 159.

""The Yellow Mask," Paperback Library Edition (New York, 1967).

^""Kenneth Robinson, Wilkie Collins, A Biography (New York, 1952), 120. '''^Any group of essays by one author will become ponderous if nothing else is read. The excerpts in the next section and the collection itself should partially dispel the accusation of their being heavy. Their brevity alone illustrates how inappropriately the word was used; if ponderous referred to style, the critic had also forgotten to consider the personas in each article (many of them were sensitive middle class gentlemen or prim old maids or widows) and the refined and restrained stylistic tradition of the informal essay. The archness has been used with some justification in that many of the essays were gaily mischievous, but this must be tempered by the fact that Dickens strongly suggested to Collins that he write in a tone which again is affiliated with the tradition of the informal essay particularly in the eighteenth century. 102 Lehmann, Dickens as Editor, 114. 103 ■'The two other headings that Collins labeled in this collection were "Nooks and Corners of History" and "Fragments of Personal Experience." ■’’^'Wilkie Collins, "Preface," My Miscellanies (London, I863), 304.

English Literary Periodicals, 65-115 passim. 106 Ibid., 65-115 passim 242

10?Marie Hamilton Low, The English Familiar Essay in the Early Nineteenth Century (New York, 1965),8,

lOSQraham, English Literary Periodicals, 65-115 passim,

■'■09garie Davis, The Flint and the Flame: The Artistry of Charles Dickens (Columbia, Missouri, 19^3), 17.

^^Davis, The Life of Wilkie Collins, 177. 311 Before the Tomtit adventure, Wilkie had written & travel serial called "Rambles Beyond Railways" for Bentley's Miscellany, one of his few short articles contributed to a journal other than those belong­ ing to Mr, Dickens, This series was not a success due to its disor- iented "rambling" structure. When Collins attempted the long travel journal again, he collaborated with Dickens in the series "The Lazy Tour of Two Idle Apprentices," covering a trip made by them into the north near Carlisle in September, 1857. In it the two referred to themselves as Thoms Idle (Collins) and Francis Goodchild (Dickens). Though relatively amusing in places, mainly due to Wilkie’s sprained ankle which he acquired while attempting to climb a hill called Carrick Fell, the length of the serial and the sparseness of inter­ esting material nake it a tiresome narrative. Wilkie’s best travel journals are those, like the Tomtit, which are restricted to a single article with the focus upon the humor of the sensitive middle-class traveler. "A Journey in Search of Nothing" and "Sea Breezes with the London Smack," are other examples of such travelogues.

•^••^"The Cruise of the Tomtit," Household Words, XII (December 22, 1855), ^95. 1-L3lbid., 499.

mibid., 492-3.

115Ibid,, 494.

•^•^Le tiers, Nonesuch, II, 714.

■^7"A Rogue’s Life: Written by Himself," Household Words, XIII (March 1, I856), 157. ^^•Jilkie Collins, "Preface" to A Rogue's Life (London, I879), 4.

tiers, Nonesuch, II, 7^. ^Ibid., 75^-5.

^Ibid,, 800. 243

■^Letters, Nonesuch , II, 801,

•^^Ibid,, 801.

^^Ibid., 801.

-^^Lehnann, Dickens as Editor, footnote on page 222.

°Lengthy quotations are needed again in this study in order to gain a sense of character flavor in the irritated and sensitive yet debonair narrator. Dickens' opinion of this essay was one of quiet approval since no letter was written in response; however, this was the first non-fiction article belonging to Collins that was placed as a lead article for that particular week (No. 324). After this a great majority of Wilkie’s articles were placed in that coveted spot, ■^^''laid Up in Two Lodgings: First—My Paris Lodging," Household Words, XIII (June 7, I856), 485-6. •^Ibid., 485-6,

l29"Laid Up in Two Lodgings: Second—My London Lodging," Household Words, XIII (June 14, I856), 518. 130"My Spinsters," Household Words, XIV (August 23, I856), 121-6.

■^^"Talk-Stoppers," Household Words, XIV (October 25, I856), 337.

132"Talk-Stoppers,” 337.

133Ibid., 340.

^^"A Shockingly Rude Article," Household Words, XVIII (August 28, 1858), 241-5, 135Ibid.. 243.

136"The Unknown Public," Household Words XVIII (August 21, I858), 218, Collins attempts to describe the unknown public by telling the reader what they are not—in this instance they are not part of the known reading public. Through this inverted method he divides the known public (the minority as far as numbers are concerned) into several categories.

There is the religious public, with booksellers and literature of its own, which includes reviews and newspapers as well as books. There is the public which reads for information, and devotes itselt to Histories, Biographies, Essays, Treatises, Voyages, and Travels, 244

There is the public which read for amusement, and patronizes the Circulating Libraries and the railway bookstalls. There is lastly the public which reads nothing but newspapers. We all know where to lay our hands on the people who represent these various classes. We see the books they like on their tables. We meet them out at dinner, and hear them talk of their favorite authors,

This was the public for which Dickens designed Household Words. 137"The Unknown Public," 220. 138Ibid.. 221.

139Ibid., 221.

l4,°Ibid.. 222.

^^Letters, Nonesuch, III, 58.

142 Amy Cruse, The Victorians and Their Reading (New York, 1935), 223. 143 See pages 11-12, 144 See pages 30~31» ^Collins, Basil, 199-200.

l46Ibid,, 223.

^7"Highly Proper!" Household Words, XVIII (October 2, I858), 351-2. 148 z Ibid., 361. lZ*9Ibid., 361.

^Qjbid., 362.

151Ibid., 363.

152 J Lehmann, Dickens as Editor, 24?. 2^5

-?J>Davis identifies other sources that Wilkie "leaned consciously on": Erkmann-Chatrian, whose eerie tales he liked and collected, and Sir Walter Scott at his most fanciful in Anne of Geirstein. The basic situation in this tale, that of a four poster bed designed to smother its occupant, was used by Joseph Conrad more than a half-century later as the basis for his "Inn of Three Witches." Conrad insisted that he had never heard of Wilkie's story. The Life of Wilkie Collins, 114. 15*4Wilkie uses the situation of the artist and his subject because of memories of his father's and grandfather's associations with land­ scape and portrait painting. Through this early scene the story develops from a common everyday occurrence. ^^See page 96.

addition to "The Cruise of the Tom-tit" and "Laid Up in Two Lodgings" (discussed in the Introduction), there are several amusing articles describing Wilkie’s problems as a writer. In "Save me from my Friends," he is trying to escape from his friends in order to meet installment deadlines. When his friends forced him to work under pressure, he would suffer nervous exhaustion and be forced to take a rest. "A Journey in Search of Nothing" amusingly recounts one such experience when too much peace and quiet was more strenuous than work. The range of his personal essays can include such novel and unexpected pieces as "The Bachelor Bedroom." As in most of the other essays Wilkie mixed autobiographic detail and fancy in order to get a light-hearted and personal effect. 137]3avis> Collins, 175-6.

^•38gee introduction, passim.

Wilkie Collins, Le Fanu and Others (London, 1951), 1-31 passim. ^^No doubt Collins was aware of his Editor’s vicious reaction toward the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood as evidenced in an earlier article in Household Words, "Old lamps for New Ones" (June 15, I85O), At the same that Dickens attacked the PRB, he also paid tribute to Wilkie’s father and Sir David Wilkie as belonging to a better genera­ tion of the Royal Academy. It is important to note, however, that such critics and painters as Sir Joshua Reynolds and Raphael, criticized by Collins, were the artists the PRB reacted against, Dickens must have approved thoroughly of Wilkie’s objective in this article, otherwise he would have dropped it without hesitation since it criticizes traditional well-known figures. ^•^Letiers, Nonesuch, 797. 246

i ^2 x Dickens also used John Bull, the national symbol for the prosperous middle-class Englishman, for several amusing Household Words articles, i.e, "A Crisis in the Affairs of Mr, John Bull" (November 23, I85O), "Mr, Bull’s Somnambulist" (November 25, 1854), For more information concerning Mr, Bull’s prototype see Walter E. Houghton, The Victorian Frame of Mind I83O-I87O. ^3See Introduction, "Highly Properl"

l64phe New Reform Bill or the second Reform Bill was not passed until I867 and then only after many false starts and much agitation— some nine years after Collins' article.

l65Harry Stone (see A Selected Bibliography) contends that Dickens is responsible for the basic idea and two major paragraphs in this article: the paragraph beginning "Even the railways ..." and from "And let the new Reform Bill . . ."to the conclusion. Dickens however, often expressed delight in the fact that when Wilkie and he collaborated on articles, it was virtually impossible to distinguish who wrote what passages. References to this in Dickens’ letters include the following works: "The Frozen Deep," "The lazy Tour of Two Idle Apprentices," "A Message from the Sea," and "No Thorough­ fare." Dickens did more collaborating with Collins than any other author; this implies the two men could readily work together inte­ grating their writing into a single coherent unit. ^66jn a later article, entitled "Pity a Poor Prince," Collins also made a plea for another member of the Royal family. The article asks the English people to allow Prince Alfred to be as unceremoni­ ously accepted as any other boy who has been sent to the Royal Navy; it seems that the Prince was constantly being welcomed to different parts of the kingdom by blasting guns and pestering officials, 3-67The truth is that Wilkie became annoyed about the freedom taken with this article. In an unpublished letter, dated October 28, 1875 (now owned by Nuell Pharr Davis), Wilkie made the following comment, "I wrote ’Major Namby’ without any idea of ’intending it for public readings,’ Public readers simply took the story without asking my leave, and (it is needless to add) without considering themselves under any pecuniary obligation to me. In the present barbarous state of laws in England, as regards literary property, I have no remedy, and no power of preventing this sort of piracy." The Life of Wilkie Collins, 236, 2^7

Year Collins Dickens 1855 10 8 1857 8 4 1858 19 3 1859 10 4 The tabulation for Dickens was taken from Collected Manuscripts, Nonesuch, I, l89Arthur Adrian speculates that their relationship was aggravated further because of disparaging remarks made by Dickens about the weak health of his son-in-law-—Kate’s husband—Charles Allston Collins. This may have caused some sensitive reaction from Wilkie since his brother was taken to task. However, J. W, T. Ley notes that Dickens wanted his brother-in-law- to illustrate his last novel, The Mystery of Edwin Drood, and was disappointed, yet understanding, when Charles refused the offer because of bad health. ^^Memoirs of Charles Dickens (London, 1913), l?0-l,

^7^"Douglas Jerrold," Household Words, XIX (February 5, 1859), 220, PRIMARY BIBLIOGRAPHY

The following bibliography contains Collins' short articles that were published in Household Words and All the Year Round.

"A Terribly Strange Bed," Household Words, V (April 24, I852), 129-37.*

"Gabriel’s Marriage," Household Words, VII (April l6, 1853)« 1^9~57; (April 23, 1853), 181-90.*

"Sister Rose," Household Words, XI (April 7, 1855). 217-25; (April 14, 1855), 244-51; (A^dl 21, 1855), 267-78; (April 28, 1855), 292-303.*

"The Yellow Mask," Household Words, XI (July 7, 1855), 529-39; (July 14, 1855), 565-73; W 21, 1855), 587-98; (July 28, 1855) , 609-19.*

"The Cruise of the Tomtit," Household Words, XII (December 22, 1855), 490-99.

"A Rogue's Life; Written by Himself," Household Words, XIII (March 1, 1856) , 157-66; (March 8, 1856), 181-91; (March 15, I856), 205-14; (March 22, I856), 228-37; (March 29, I856), 25I-63.

"Laid Up in Two Lodgings," Household Words, XIII ’First—My Paris Lodging,' (June 7, I856), 481-6; 'Second—My London Lodging,' (June 14, I856), 5X7-23.**

"The Diary of Anne Rodway," Household Words,XIV (July 19, I856), 1-7? (July 26, I856), 30-8.***

"My Spinsters," Household Words, XIV (August 23, I856), 121-6.**

"My Black Mirror," Household Words, XIV (September 6, 1856), 169-75.**

"To Think, or Be Thought For?" Household Words, XIV (September 13, 1856), 193-8.**

* Collected in After Dark (1856).

** Collected in My Miscellanies (I863).

*** Collected in The Queen of Hearts (1859). 249

"Talk-Stoppers," Household Words, XIV (October 25, I856), 337-42,**

"Chip: the National Gallery and the Old Masters," Household Words, XIV (October 25, I856), 347-8.

"A Petition to the Novel-Writers," Household Words, XIV (December 6, 1856) , 481-5.**

"Bold Words by a Bachelor,” Household Words, XIV (December 13» 1856), 505-7.**

"A Fair Penitent," Household Words, XVI (July 18, 1857)» 55“9.

"A Remarkable Revolution," Household Words, XVI (August 1, 1857), 100-4.**

"The Yellow Tiger," Household Words, XVI (August 8, 1857)» 121-30,

"A Queen’s Revenge," Household Words, XVI (August 15, 1857), 156-62.**

"A Journey in Search of Nothing: Note the First, Trying for Quiet," Household Words, XVI (September 5, 1857), 217-23.**

"The Debtor’s Best Friend," Household Words, XVI (September 19, 1857), 279-82.

"Mrs. Badgery," Household Words, XVI (September 26, 1857), 289-93.**

"The Lazy Tour of Two Idle Apprentices," Jwith Charles Dickens/ Household Words, XVI (October 3, 1857), 313-19, (October 10, 1857) , 337-49; (October 17, 1857), 361-7; (October 24, 1857), 385-93; (October 31, 1857), 409-16.

"Deep Design on Society," Household Words. XVII (January 2, I858), 49-53.

"The Little Huguenot," Household Words, XVII (January 9, I858), 80-4.

"Save Me from My Friends," Household Words, XVII (January l6, 1858), 97-102.**

"Thanks to Dr. Livingstone," Household Words, XVII (January 23, 1858), 121-5.

"Strikel" Household Words, XVII (February 6, I858), 169-72.

"Give Us Rooml" Household Words, XVII (February 13, I858), 193-6.**

"A Sermon for Sepoys," Household Words, XVII (February 27, I858), 244-7. 250

"Dramatic Grub Street," Household Words, XVII (March 6, I858), 265-70.**

"A Shy Scheme," Household Words, XVII (March 20, 1858), 313-6.

"Awful Warning to Bachelors," Household Words, XVII (March 27, I858), 337-40.

"Mrs. Bullwinkle," Household Words, XVII (April 17, I858), 409-11.**

"The Unknown Public," Household Words, XVIII (August 21, I858), 217-22.**

"A Shockingly Rude Article," Household Words, XVIII (August 28, 1858) , 241-5.**

"Sea-Breezes with the London Smack," Household Words, XVIII (Septem­ ber 4, I858), 274-7.

"The Poisoned Meal," Household Words,XVIII (September 18, I858), 313-8; (September 25, 1858773^7-52.

"Highly Proper!" Household Words, XVIII (October 2, I858), 361-3.

"A Clause for the New Reform Bill,” jwith Charles Dickens/ Household Words. XVIII (October 9, I858), 385-7.

"A Paradoxical Experience," Household Words, XVIII (November 13, I858), 516-22.***

"Doctor Dulcamara, M.P," Jwith Charles Dickens^ Household Words, XIX (December 18, I858), 49-52.

"A New Mind," Household Words, XIX (January 1, 1859), 107-14.***

"Pity a Poor Prince," Household Words, XIX (January 15, 1859), 146-7,

"Douglas Jerrold," Household Words, XIX (February 5, 1859), 217-22.**

"Burns: Viewed as a Hat-Peg," Household Words, XIX (February 12, 1859) , 241-3.

"The Great (Forgotten) Invasion," Household Words, XIX (March 12, 1859), 337-41.**

"A Breach of British Privilege," Household Words, XIX (March 19, 1859), 361-4.

"A Dramatic Author,” Household Words, XIX (May 28, 1859), 609-10, 251

"Sure to be Healthy, Wealthy and Wise," All the Year Round, I (April 30, 1859), 5-10.

"Pray Employ Major Namby!" All the Year Round, l(June 4, 1859), 136—41«**

"Portrait of an Author, Painted by his Publisher," All the Year Round, I (June 18, 1859), 184-9; (June 25, I859), 205-10.**

"The Bachelor Bedroom," All the Year Round, I (August 6, 1859), 355-60,**

"Memoirs of an Adopted Son," All the Year Round, V (April 20, 1861), 90-6.**

"The Caldron of Oil," All the Year Round, V (May 11, 1861), 162-8.**

"A Fatal Fortune," All the Year Round, October 1?, 1874 and October 24, 1874.

"Mr. Percy and the Prophet," All the Year Round, Extra Summer Number (July 2, 1877). A SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY

The following bibliography is highly selective. It includes

two categories of works only: those works that are essential to the

study of Collins as a periodical writer, and those works that shed

additional light on Household Words, Dickens' editorial procedures,

or related matters,

Adrian, Arthur A. "A Note on the Dickens-Collins Friendship," Huntington Library Quarterly, XVI (February, 1953), 211-13.

Altick, Richard D. The English Common Reader; A Social History of the Mass Reading Public, 1800-1900. Chicago, 1957.

Ashley, Robert. Wilkie Collins. London, 1952.

______. "Wilkie Collins and the Detective Story," Nineteenth Century Fiction, VI (June, 1951), 47-60,

. "Wilkie Collins Reconsidered," Nineteenth Century Fiction, IV (March, 1950), 131-43.

Baker, Joseph E. The Reinterpretation of Victorian Literature. Princeton, New Jersey, 1950.

Bentley, Eric. "Melodrama," The Life of the Drama. New York, 1964.

Booth, Bradford A. "Wilkie Collins and the Art of Fiction," Nineteenth Century Fiction, VI (September, 1951), 265-70.

Buckler, William E. "Dickens as Paymaster," PMLA, LXVI (December, 1951), 1177-80

Chappie, J.A.V. and Arthur Pollard. The Letters of Mrs. Gaskell. Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1967.

Collins, P.A.W. "Dickens as Editor: Some Uncollected Fragments," Dickensian, LVI (May, i960), 85-96.

______. "Dickens' /sic7 Periodicals: Articles on Education, an Annotated Bibliography," Vaughan College Papers No. 3. University of Leicester, 1957. 253

Collins. P.A.W. "'Inky Fishing Nets': Dickens as Editor," Dickensian, LXI (May, 1965), 120-25.

. "’Keep Household Words Imaginative! Dickensian, UI (June, 1956), 117-23.

_____ , "The Significance of Dickens’s Periodicals," Review of English Literature. II (July, 1961), 55-64.

Cox, R.G. "The Reviews and Magazines,” From Dickens to Hardy. Vol. VI of The Pelican Guide to English Literature. Edited by Boris Ford. 7 vols. Baltimore, 1958. 188-204.

Cruse, Amy. The Victorians and Their Reading. London, 1935.

Dalziel, Margaret. Popular Fiction 100 Years Ago, An Unexplored Tract of Literary History. London, 1957.

Davis, Earle Rosco. "Charles Dickens and Wilkie Collins," University of Wichita Bulletin, XX (June, 1945), 1-26.

_____ , The Flint and the Flame. Columbia, Missouri, 1965.

Davis, Nuel Pharr. The Life of Wilkie Collins. Urbana, Illinois, 1956.

Dickens, Charles (ed.) All the Year Round: A Weekly Journal. 20 vols,; New Series 4 vols. London, 1859-70.

. Household Words: A Weekly Journal. 29 vols. London, 1850-1859.

Dickens, Charles, The Letters of Charles Dickens. Edited by Walter Dexter. 3 vols. The Nonesuch Press edition. Bloomsbury, England, 1938.

Dickens, Charles (the Younger). "Charles Dickens as an Editor," English Illustrated Magazine, VI (August, 1889), 822-28.

_____ . "Dickens as Editor," The Critic, XII (August 17, 1889), 88-95.

Ehsson, Angus, "Dickens, Household Words, and a Double Standard," Dickensian, LX (May, 1964), 104-14,

Ellis, Stewart M. Wilkie Collins, Le Fanu, and Others. London, 1931.

Escott, T.H.S. Masters of English Journalism. London, 1911. 254

Fitzgerald, Percy. Memories of Charles Dickens with an Account of "Household Words" and "All the Year Round" and of the Contributors Thereto. Bristol, 1913.

Forster, John. The Life of Charles Dickens. Edited by J.W.T. Ley. London, 1928.

Graham, Walter. English Literary Periodicals. New York, 1930.

Grant, James, The Newspaper Press. 3 vols, London, 1871.

Grubbs, Gerald Giles. "Dickens' Editorial Methods," Studies in Philology, XL (January, 1943), 79-100.

___ . "Dickens' Influence as Editor," Studies in Philology, XLII (October, 1945), 811-23.

_____ . "Dickens’ Pattern of Weekly Serialization," Journal of English Literary History, IX (June, 1942), 141-56,

_____ , "Dickens the Paymaster Once More," Dickensian, LI (March, 1955), 72-8.

___ , "The Editorial Policies of Charles Dickens," PMLA, LVIII (December, 1943), 1110-24,

Houghton, Walter E. The Victorian Frame of Mind: I83O-I87O« New Haven, 1957.

"Household Words Contributor's Book." Ms, Princeton University Library.

Hudson, Frederick. Journalism in America from I69O-I872, New York, 1873.

Hyder, Clyde K, "Wilkie Collins and The Woman in White, '* PMLA, LIV (March, 1939), 297-303.

James, Louis. Fiction for the Working Man I83O-I85O. London, 1963.

Johnson, Edgar. Charles Dickens, His Tragedy and Triumph. 2 vols. New York, 1952.

Law, Marie Hamilton, The English Familiar Essay in the Early Nineteenth Century. New York, 1965.

Lehmann, Rudolph C. Charles Dickens as Editor; Being Letters Written by Him to William Henry Wills, His Sub-editor. New York, 1912. 2-55

Ley, J.W.T. The Dickens Circlet A Narrative of the Novelist’s Friendships. New York, 1919.

Linton, Elizabeth Lynn, My Literary Life, London, 1899.

MacEachen, Dougald B, "Wilkie Collinst Victorian Crusader," Unpublished dissertation, The University of Cincinnati, 19^8.

Milley, Henry James Wye, "The Achievement of Wilkie Collins and His Influences on Dickens and Trollope." Unpublished disserta­ tion, Yale University, 19^1.

Murray, Harold, "Dickens as Editor; His Hints to Young Journalists," Reporter’s Journal, XXXVII (August, 19U), 113“5.

Parrish, M.L. Wilkie Collins and Charles Reade First Editions Described with Notes. New York, 19^0,

Pollard, Arthur, Mrs. Gaskell, Novelist and Biographer. Manchester, England, 1965.

Phillips, Walter Clarke. Dickens, Reade, and Collins, Sensation Novelists. New York, 1919.

Quinlan, Maurice J. Victorian Prelude, A History of English Manners 1837-1873. London^-195^«

Robinson, Kenneth. Wilkie Collins, a Biography. New York, 1952.

Stone, Harry. Charles Dickens1 Uncollected Writings from "Household Words" 1850-1859. Bloomington, Indiana, 1968.

Thomson, F&tricia, The Victorian Heroine; A History of English Manners 1700-1830. Hamden, Connecticut, 19?>5.

Troughton, Marian, "Dickens as Editor,” Contemporary Review, 109^ (February, 1957), 87-91.

Webb, R.K. "The Victorian Reading Public," From Dickens to Hardy. Vol. VI of The Pelican Guide to English Literature. Edited by Boris Ford. 7 vols. Baltimore, 1958. 205-26.

Young, C.M. Victorian England; Portrait of an Age. New York, 198^.