The Library Magazine of Select Foreign Literature: All volumesVarious
History
The Library Magazine of Select Foreign Literature: All volumes
Various
Periodicals
Dickens in the tender memorial which he penned for the "Cornhill
Magazine," remarks on his appearance when they dined together. 'No one,'
he says, 'can ever have seen him more genial, natural, cordial, fresh, and
honestly impulsive than I have seen him at those times. No one can be
surer than I of the greatness and goodness of the heart that had then
disclosed itself.'
Beneath his 'modestly grand' manner, his seeming cynicism and bitterness,
he bore a very tender and loving heart. In a letter written in 1854, and
quoted in James Hannay's sketch, he expresses himself thus. 'I hate
Juvenal,' he says. 'I mean I think him a truculent fellow; and I love
Horace better than you do, and rate Churchill much lower; and as for
Swift, you haven't made me alter my opinion. I admire, or rather admit,
his power as much as you do; but I don't admire that kind or power so much
as I did fifteen years ago, or twenty shall we say. Love is a higher
intellectual exercise than hatred; and when you get one or two more of
those young ones you write so pleasantly about, you'll come over to the
side of the kind wags, I think, rather than the cruel ones.' The pathetic
sadness visible in much that he wrote sprung partly from temperament and
partly from his own private calamities. Loss of fortune was not the only
cause. When a young man in Paris, he married; and after enjoying domestic
happiness for several years, his wife caught a fever from which she never
afterwards sufficiently recovered to be able to be with her husband and
children. She was henceforth intrusted to the care of a kind family, where
every comfort and attention was secured for her. The lines in the ballad
of the "Bouillabaisse" are supposed to refer to this early time of
domestic felicity:
Ah me! how quick the days are flitting!
I mind me of a time that's gone,
When here I'd sit as now I'm sitting,
In this place--but not alone.
A fair young form was nestled near me,
A dear, dear face looked fondly up,
And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me--
There's no one now to share my cup.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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