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    My Father as I Recall Him
    My Father as I Recall Him
    My Father as I Recall Him
    Ebook92 pages1 hour

    My Father as I Recall Him

    By Mamie Dickens

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    The following is a biography of Charles Dickens, written by his eldest daughter, Mary 'Mamie' Dickens. Mary was one of the two daughters who decided to live with her father after her mother separated from him. She began her recollection of him through the following paragraph: "If, in these pages, written in remembrance of my father, I should tell you my dear friends, nothing new of him, I can, at least, promise you that what I shall tell will be told faithfully, if simply, and perhaps there may be some things not familiar to you."
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherGood Press
    Release dateApr 24, 2021
    ISBN4064066192167

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      Book preview

      My Father as I Recall Him - Mamie Dickens

      Mamie Dickens

      My Father as I Recall Him

      Published by Good Press, 2021

      [email protected]

      EAN 4064066192167

      Table of Contents

      CHAPTER I.

      CHAPTER II.

      CHAPTER III.

      CHAPTER IV.

      To Miss Dickens’ Pomeranian. MRS. BOUNCER.

      CHAPTER V.

      CHAPTER VI.

      CHAPTER I.

      Table of Contents

      Seeing Gad’s Hill as a child.—His domestic side and home-love.—His love of children.—His neatness and punctuality.—At the table, and as host.—The original of Little Nell.

      Charles Dickens Reading in Garden

      If, in these pages, written in remembrance of my father, I should tell you my dear friends, nothing new of him, I can, at least, promise you that what I shall tell will be told faithfully, if simply, and perhaps there may be some things not familiar to you.

      A great many writers have taken it upon themselves to write lives of my father, to tell anecdotes of him, and to print all manner of things about him.  Of all these published books I have read but one, the only genuine Life thus far written of him, the one sanctioned by my father himself, namely: The Life of Charles Dickens, by John Forster.

      But in what I write about my father I shall depend chiefly upon my own memory of him, for I wish no other or dearer remembrance.  My love for my father has never been touched or approached by any other love.  I hold him in my heart of hearts as a man apart from all other men, as one apart from all other beings.

      Of my father’s childhood it is but natural that I should know very little more than the knowledge possessed by the great public.  But I never remember hearing him allude at any time, or under any circumstances, to those unhappy days in his life except in the one instance of his childish love and admiration for Gad’s Hill, which was destined to become so closely associated with his name and works.

      He had a very strong and faithful attachment for places: Chatham, I think, being his first love in this respect.  For it was here, when a child, and a very sickly child, poor little fellow, that he found in an old spare room a store of books, among which were Roderick Random, Peregrine Pickle, Humphrey Clinker, Tom Jones, The Vicar of Wakefield, Don Quixote, Gil Blas, Robinson Crusoe, The Arabian Nights, and other volumes.  They were, as Mr. Forster wrote, a host of friends when he had no single friend.  And it was while living at Chatham that he first saw Gad’s Hill.

      As a very queer small boy he used to walk up to the house—it stood on the summit of a high hill—on holidays, or when his heart ached for a great treat.  He would stand and look at it, for as a little fellow he had a wonderful liking and admiration for the house, and it was, to him, like no other house he had ever seen.  He would walk up and down before it with his father, gazing at it with delight, and the latter would tell him that perhaps if he worked hard, was industrious, and grew up to be a good man, he might some day come to live in that very house.  His love for this place went through his whole life, and was with him until his death.  He takes Mr. Pickwick and his friends from Rochester to Cobham by the beautiful back road, and I remember one day when we were driving that way he showed me the exact spot where Mr. Pickwick called out: Whoa, I have dropped my whip!  After his marriage he took his wife for the honeymoon to a village called Chalk, between Gravesend and Rochester.

      Many years after, when he was living with his family in a villa near Lausanne, he wrote to a friend: The green woods and green shades about here are more like Cobham, in Kent, than anything we dream of at the foot of the Alpine passes.  And again, in still later years, one of his favorite walks from Gad’s Hill was to a village called Shorne, where there was a quaint old church and graveyard.  He often said that he would like to be buried there, the peace and quiet of the homely little place having a tender fascination for him.  So we see that his heart was always in Kent.

      But let this single reference to his earlier years suffice, so that I may write of him during those years when I remember him among us and around us in our home.

      From his earliest childhood, throughout his earliest married life to the day of his death, his nature was home-loving.  He was a home man in every respect.  When he became celebrated at a very early age, as we know, all his joys and sorrows were taken home; and he found there sympathy and the companionship of his own familiar friends.  In his letters to these latter, in his letters to my mother, to my aunt, and, later on, to us his children, he never forgot anything that he knew would be of interest about his work, his successes, his hopes or fears.  And there was a sweet simplicity in his belief that such news would most certainly be acceptable to all, that is wonderfully touching and child-like coming from a man of genius.

      His care and thoughtfulness about home matters, nothing being deemed too small or trivial to claim his attention and consideration, were really marvellous when we remember his active, eager, restless, working brain.  No man was so inclined naturally to derive his happiness from home affairs.  He was full of the kind of interest in a house which is commonly confined to women, and his care of and for us as wee children did most certainly pass the love of women! His was a tender and most affectionate nature.

      For many consecutive summers we used to be taken to

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