NO. 48 DOUGHTY STREET

Evening Star, Issue 22249, 29 January 1936, Page 3

NO. 48 DOUGHTY STREET

MEMORIES OF DICKERS [Written by W.W.8., for the ‘ Evening Star.’] Tom, —I am finite ashamed I have not returned your leg, but you shall have it by Harry to-morrow. If you would like to purchase my Clavis you shall have it at a very reduced price. Cheaper in comparison than a leg. P.S.—l suppose all the time you have had a wooden leg. I have weighed yours every Saturday night.

How many lovers of Dickens, we wonder, would recognise that here is the earliest known fragment of-- his writing? Only a note from a boy aged 12 to his mate at Wellington House Academy, Hampstead road—a rather gruesome epistle at first sight, until we learn that “ leg ” is schoolboy slang

for “ lexicon ” —yet we gaze and gaze upon this relic of a great novelist’s younger days. Not the massive monuments reared in honour of the dead, nor the colossal structures of some modern architect have power to stir the heart, but rather the tiny, familiar things—a pen. or an ornament, or a faded letter— something which we know has actually been used or cherished by its owner in days gone by. For this reason alone Dickens House in London will always have a place in our artections, and it may well be imagined that when before very long the cen.tenary of the completion of Ine Pickwick Papers ’ arrives, No. 4b Doughty Street, where the visitor may see for himself not only the abovementioned schoolboy letter} hut a host of other Dickens relics, will be the Mecca of countless admirers from England and abroad. From the outside, Dickens House looks very much like any other house in any other smoky . London terrace, yet this is where Charles Dickens lived for a time, finished ‘ The Pickwick Papers,’ began his friendship with Forster, and brought to life those three lusty children of his fertile _ brain—‘Oliver Twist,’ ‘ Nicholas. Nickleby, and ‘ Barnaby Rudge.’ This fascinating house still stands in its original condition, adorned with only a simple circular tablet bearing the words: “ L.C.C. Charles Dickens, ISI2-1870, novelist, lived here.” Characteristically English in its style, this inscription makes no vain display, but assumes that people from every; quarter of the globe will seek out this unpretentious abode and view with reverence the treasures it contains. Only with recent times has Dickens House been created. It is indeed heart-rending to discover that, had it not been for the efforts of a loyal band of admirers, No. 48 Doughty Street might have gone the way of alj unwanted property; but stimulating and inspiring to find that on June 9, 1925, the bouse was by formal deed converted into a library and museum for the benefit of all true Dickensians for centuries to come. How Mr Pickwick would have beamed with gratification had he .known that a certain clock still ticks gravely away in the dining room of No. 48, dreaming no doubt of the days when it stood in the coach office of the White Hart Inn, much to the delight of Moses Pickwick, coach and hotel proprietor, of Bath, the worthy fronv whom Dickens derived the name of his famous character. What the novelist himself would have thought of the transformation of his Doughty street home might be difficult to say, for there are both sad and joyful memories enshrined within these walls. Dickens celebrated here the first anniversary of his marriage, and wrqteto one of his friends a letter of invitation—the. original may be seen in the library within —to a dinner in honour of another first anniversary—that of the publication of ‘ The Pickwick Papers.’ Yet we must not forget that here died Mary Hogarth, his wife’s younger sister, and that the shock of this bereavement unnerved and saddened him for many years. There is a tragic contrast between the energy and enthusiasm of “ I am getting on, thank heaven, like ‘ a house o’ fire,’ and think the next Pickwick will bang all the others,” and this very brief entry in his diary of 1838; “ A sad New Year’s_ Day in one respect, for at the beginning of last year poor Mary was with us.” Indeed, so bitterly did he feel the blow that the publication of both ‘ The Pickwick Papers ’ and ‘ Oliver Twist ’ was interrupted for several weeks. We are told that when Dickens 'moved from Doughty street to Devonshire Terrace it was because the growth of his family

“ a house of great promise (and great premium), undeniable situation, and excessive splendour ” ; yet perhaps it is not unreasonable to surmise that the weight of gloom which rested on No. 48 had rendered it almost intolerable to him, and that under the circumstances he was only too anxious to bid farewell to Doughty street. However that may he, the house itself is still eloquent of his residence there. As we enter the front room we stand in amazement before a picture hung over the fireplace. A well-known writer has given us a clever essay on • Eggs,’ and in it he mentions Augustus Egg. A.R.A., so that it is jike shaking” hands . with an old acquaintance to find before us a picture by this very painter entitled “ Dickens as ‘ Sir Charles Coldstream.’ ” The play itself was called ‘ Used Up,’ and the artist presented the painting to Dickens. Other items of interest in this room are a playbill of a performance by the Dickens Dramatic Company (which included Mark Lemon, editor of ‘ Punch,’ and Wilkie Collins) ; a walking stick, an inkstand, and a writing desk belonging to the author; a tortoiseshell card case (his wedding present to his wife), and an actual lock of the novelist’s hair. Very fine, indeed, is the

made the change necessary. Certainly the author himself looked forward to portrait in oils by W. Q. Richardson, R.A., a picture that Dickens himself admired as being the embodiment of his conception of Little Paul in ‘ Dombey and Son.’ Proceeding to the back room, we discover tickets of admission to one of his readings, an armchair which he used at Gad’s Hill Place, and, most touching of all, the withered fragments of a rose taken from off his body on June 9, 1870, and preserved by Fanny Vine, housemaid at Gad’s Hill. On the first floor is the study, with a writing table mice used by Dickens, and numerous first editions of his works, including ‘ The Pickwick Papers’ (1837), ‘Oliver Twist, or the Parish Boy’s Progress J }1838), ‘ Nicholas Nickleby ’ (the original 19/20 parts published from April, 1838, to October, 1839), ‘ The Lamplighter: A Farce ’ (published in 1838, but never acted, and later issued in story form), ‘ Master Humphrey’s Clock (1840-41, bound in the original ‘Clock’ cases), and ‘ Barnaby Rudge ’ (1840), together with several other works less familiar to the average reader. Next comes the library, where among the Matz collection we find a most interesting relic—the reading ' desk which, after his last reading in March, 1870, Dickens presented to his daughter Kate, who died in 1925. Around the room are bookshelves crammed with bpoks concerning Dickens, and on the stairway a copper tea urn and numerous pictures of scenes from the old coaching days. On the second floor is a little back room with the attic window of 141 Bayham street, Camden Town, whither, as a boy of 11 years of age, Dickens came in 1823; and, most fascinating of all, the pantry window through which Oliver Twist, convulsed with fear, was thrust by the redoubtable Bill Sikes. In the front .room are to be seen the desk- which Dickens used when he was employed by Messrs Ellis and Blackmore, of Gray’s Inn, and close by, two balusters from the galle of ‘ The White Hart Inn,’ in Southwark, where Mr Pickwick first made the acquaintance of Sam Weller. As a finishing touch to Dickens House there has been created downstairs _ a Dingley Dell kitchen, complete with pewter ware and warming pans, and containing among other things the original stone used by the Soho goldbeater in ‘ A Tale of Two Cities.’ In rather pathetic contrast with Dickens House is the Old Curiosity Shop in Portsmouth street, not very far distant. True, the establishment bears some resemblance to the original, though it is more than likely that Dickens found his real model elsewhere; but it is when the enthusiastic visitor, eager to discover some new link with the past, approaches the windows of the building that he a distinct shock, for there is nothing _to lie seen but a collection of souvenirs, of which he is invited to purchase as many as he can afford. In another corner of the shop are some quite modern-looking chocolates and cigarettes. Fortunately the English do not believe in lavish display, or we should certainly have been greeted by Sam Weller officiating behind the counter of an up-to : date snack bar. So we return to our first love, No. 48, and though we hear from its portals no trumpets sounding in honour of Charles Dickens, we realise, as we walk through Bloomsbury on our homeward journey, that we are not alone, for someone who was once familiar with every corner of London, and felt the tides of its vast sea of humanitv flowing in his veins, is with us all the way, bringing back to our minds the scenes and characters which, through the medium of his pages, we are able to visualise so well.