Studying the history of the human heart, 1840
Studying the history of the human heart, 1840
Who was vain about his hair?
One of the most popular Histories pieces here two years ago was an 1897 interview I found with Bram Stoker, who was on the publicity treadmill for the newly published Dracula. Here it is:
So I thought I’d ferret out another early celebrity interview. Now, I don’t want you to think I’m obsessed with Charles Dickens, but he too has been a popular figure here (on tour in America, for example, and as an eyewitness to an execution). Let’s meet him in the role of interviewee.
In the early 1840s, Dickens was by no means near the height of his powers or his fame. At the time of the interview I’ll share below, from July 1840, he was just 29 years old – celebrated, but still pretty new on the literary scene, with only The Pickwick Papers, Oliver Twist and Nicholas Nickleby (and a fair bit of journalism) under his belt. And at this point both The Old Curiosity Shop and Barnaby Rudge were still being serialised in his own periodical, Master Humphrey’s Clock. According to legend, the delays in issues of this crossing the Atlantic led to a mob storming the docks at New York to find out what happened to Little Nell (so the mania when the later Harry Potter books were first published is nothing new). Cliffhangers fuelled demand.
So let’s meet our interviewer, who was one Charles Edwards Lester (1815–1890), just three years Dickens’s junior. Lester was born in Connecticut and studied both law and theology – his fiery sermons asa Presbyterian minister were notable. He was also a campaigner against slavery (he is said to be one of the many people in a painting by another serial friend of Histories, Benjamin Robert Haydon, namely ‘The Anti-Slavery Convention, 1840’). Lester must have been one of the few people in history to have deliberately travelled to Britain, in 1840, to improve his health (in his case a lung condition, and it was tuberculosis which killed him aged 74). A couple of years later he was appointed US Consul in Genoa, Italy, where he served for eight years before returning to New York to pursue the literary life, mostly as a biographer and history writer. An obituary described him as “a singularly winning man”, loved by all who knew him and with a “broad and brilliant mind”.
His first book was The Glory and Shame of England, published in 1841, resulting from his tours of coal mines and factories – he praised Britain for its heritage and countryside, and for freeing slaves in its empire, but upbraided it for the homegrown slavery of child labour in those workplaces and the stark inequality between rich and poor.
During his 1840 tour, Lester managed to get the Scottish poet Thomas Campbell to write a letter to Dickens to introduce him, thus enabling Lester to call on the novelist at his home in 1 Devonshire Terrace in London. Lester’s book is presented as a series of letters sent to America, some to prominent figures. Thus, in volume 2, we encounter one addressed to the writer Washington Irving (who Dickens became friends with a year or so later) – and this is where Lester recounts the visit. The highlights are below – but with a caveat at the end!1
This morning I called on Mr. Dickens. I felt the same reverence for the historian of little Nelly when I entered his library, that I should for the author of Waverley [i.e. Walter Scott] at his grave… I sent in my card, after writing on it with a pencil, “An American would be greatly obliged if he could see Mr. Dickens.” In a moment or two the servant returned and showed me to the library.
The author was sitting in a large arm-chair by his table, with a sheet of “Master Humphrey’s Clock” before him. He came forward and gave me his hand familiarly, and offered me a chair. I told him I was an American, and hoped he would pardon me for calling without an invitation, and, if he was not particularly engaged, I should be much gratified with a short interview. He begged me to make no apologies; he was always glad to see Americans… I at once felt at home, and remarked that I trusted I was prompted by a better motive than mere curiosity in coming to see him. I wished to see the man who had so faithfully delineated the human heart, and shown so much sympathy for the poor and the suffering: it was the philanthropist even more than the author I was anxious to see.
He replied, nothing could be more gratifying to him than to receive demonstrations of regard from American readers. “American praise,” said he, “is the best praise in the world, for it is sincere. Very few reviews are written in this country except under the influence of some personal feeling. Do not understand me to complain of the treatment I have received from the reviewers: they have awarded me more praise than I deserve.”
I expressed a desire to know something of the history of his authorship, at the same time saying that, of course, I did not expect him to communicate to a stranger anything he would not freely make known to the world.
“Oh, sir,” he replied, “ask as many questions as you please: as an American, it is one of your inalienable rights to ask questions; and this, I fancy, is the reason why the Yankees are so intelligent.”
I inquired if, in portraying his characters, he had not, in every instance, his eye upon some particular person he had known, since I could not conceive it possible for an author to present such graphic and natural pictures except from real life. “Allow me to ask, sir,” I said, “if the one-eyed Squeers, coarse but good John Browdie, the beautiful Sally Brass, clever Dick Swiveller, the demoniac and intriguing Quilp, the good Cheerbly Brothers, the avaricious Fagin, and dear little Nelly, are mere fancies?”
“No, sir, they are not,” he replied; “they are copies. You will not understand me to say, of course, that they are true histories in all respects, but they are real likenesses; nor have I in any of my works attempted anything more than to arrange my story as well as I could, and give a true picture of scenes I have witnessed. My past history and pursuits have led me to a familiar acquaintance with numerous instances of extreme wretchedness and of deep-laid villany. In the haunts of squalid poverty I have found many a broken heart too good for this world. Many such persons, now in the most abject condition, have seen better days. Once they moved in circles of friendship and affluence, from which they have been hurled by misfortune to the lowest depths of want and sorrow. This class of persons is very large.
“Then there are thousands in our parish workhouses and in the lanes of London, born into the world without a friend except God and a dying mother. Many, too, who in circumstances of trial have yielded to impulses of passion, and by one fatal step fallen beyond recovery. London is crowded, and, indeed, so is all England, with the poor, the unfortunate, and the guilty. This description of persons has been generally overlooked by authors. They have had none to care for them, and have fled from the public gaze to some dark habitation of this great city, to curse the cold charities of a selfish world, and die. There are more broken hearts in London than in any other place in the world. The amount of crime, starvation, nakedness, and misery of every sort in the metropolis surpasses all calculation. I thought I could render some service to humanity by bringing these scenes before the minds of those who, from never having witnessed them, suppose they cannot exist.
“In this effort I have not been wholly unsuccessful; and there is nothing makes me happier than to think that, by some of my representations, I have increased the stock of human cheerfulness, and, by others, the stock of human sympathy. I think it makes the heart better to seek out the suffering and relieve them. I have spent many days and nights in the most wretched districts of the metropolis, studying the history of the human heart. There we must go to find it. In high circles we see everything but the heart, and learn everything but the real character. We must go to the hovels of the poor and the unfortunate, where trial brings out the character… In describing these characters I aim no higher than to feel in writing as they seemed to feel themselves. I am persuaded that I have succeeded just in proportion as I have cultivated a familiarity with the trials and sorrows of the poor, and told their story as they would have related it themselves.”
I spoke of the immense popularity of his works, and remarked that I believed he had ten readers in America where he had one in England.
“Why, sir, the popularity of my works has surprised me. For some reason or other, I believe they are somewhat extensively read; nor is it the least gratifying circumstance to me, that they have been so favourably received in your country. I am trying to enjoy my fame while it lasts, for I believe I am not so vain as to suppose that my books will be read by any but the men of my own times.”
I remarked that he might consider himself alone in that opinion, and it would probably be no easy matter to make the world coincide with him. He answered, with a smile, “I shall probably not make any very serious efforts to do it!”…
Mr. Dickens spoke on every matter about which we conversed with a freedom and kindness that showed he spoke from the heart…
I think Dickens incomparably the finest-looking man I ever saw… no picture can do justice to his expression when he is engaged in an interesting conversation. There is something about his eyes at such times which cannot be copied. In person he is perhaps a little above the standard height; but his bearing is noble, and he appears taller than he really is. His figure is very graceful, neither too slight nor too stout. The face is handsome. His complexion is delicate… I presume he is somewhat vain of his hair, and he can be pardoned for it too… But the charm of his person is in his full, soft, beaming eyes… [it goes on]
I passed two hours at his house, and when I left was more impressed than ever with the goodness of his heart… I expressed, on leaving, the hope that little Nelly (in whose fate I confessed I felt a deeper interest than in that of most real characters) might, after all her wanderings, find a quiet and happy home. “The same hope,” he replied, “has been expressed to me by others; and I hardly know what to do. But if you ever hear of her death in a future number of the Clock, you shall say that she died as she lived.”
Woah – spoiler alert, Dickens!
The question is, though, was Lester’s gushing account a true and fair one? Next time I’ll give you the case for the prosecution!