A Week's Tramp in Dickens-Land: Together with Personal Reminiscences of the 'Inimitable Boz' Therein CollectedHughes, William R. (William Richard)
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A Week's Tramp in Dickens-Land: Together with Personal Reminiscences of the 'Inimitable Boz' Therein Collected
Hughes, William R. (William Richard)
Dickens, Charles, 1812-1870; England -- Description and travel
The worthy alderman is also stated to have had in his possession a card
of invitation to spend the evening at Ordnance Terrace, addressed from
Master and Miss Dickens to Master and Miss Tribe, which was dated about
this time.
In consequence of the elder Dickens being recalled from Chatham to
Somerset House, to comply with official requirements, the family removed
to London in 1823,[22] "and took up its abode in a house in Bayham
Street, Camden Town." Dickens thus describes his journey to London in
"Dullborough Town," one of the sketches in _The Uncommercial
Traveller_:--
"As I left Dullborough in the days when there were
no railroads in the land, I left it in a
stage-coach. Through all the years that have since
passed, have I ever lost the smell of the damp
straw in which I was packed--like game--and
forwarded, carriage paid, to the Cross Keys, Wood
Street, Cheapside, London? There was no other
inside passenger, and I consumed my sandwiches in
solitude and dreariness, and it rained hard all
the way, and I thought life sloppier than I had
expected to find it. . . ."
Mr. W. T. Wildish, the proprietor of the _Rochester and Chatham
Journal_, kindly favours us with some interesting information which has
recently appeared in his journal, relating to Charles Dickens's
nurse--the Mary Weller of his boyhood (and perhaps the Peggotty as
well), but known to later generations as Mrs. Mary Gibson of Front Row,
Ordnance Place, Chatham, who died in the spring of the year 1888, at the
advanced age of eighty-four. Very touchingly, but unknowingly, did
Dickens write from Gad's Hill, 24th September, 1857, being unaware that
she was still living:--
"I feel much as I used to do when I was a small child, a few miles off,
and somebody--_who_, I wonder, and which way did _she_ go when she
died?--hummed the evening hymn, and I cried on the pillow--either with
the remorseful consciousness of having kicked somebody else, or because
still somebody else had hurt my feelings in the course of the day."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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