When “the boys” came home
for the holidays there were constant sieges of practice for the
Christmas and New Year's parties; and more especially for the dance on Twelfth Night, the anniversary of my
brother Charlie's birthday. Just before one of these celebrations my
father insisted that my sister Katie and I should teach the polka step
to him and Mr. Leech. My father was as much in earnest about learning to
take that wonderful step correctly, as though there were nothing of
greater importance in the world. Often he would practice gravely in a
corner, without either partner or music, and I remember one cold
winter's night his awakening with the fear that he had forgotten the
step so strong upon him that, jumping out of bed, by the scant
illumination of the old-fashioned rushlight, and to his own whistling,
he diligently rehearsed its “one, two, one, two” until he was once more
secure in his knowledge.
No one can imagine our
excitement and nervousness when the evening came on which we were to
dance with our pupils. Katie was to have Mr. Leech, who was over six
feet tall, for her partner, while my father was to be mine. My heart
beat so fast that I could scarcely breathe, I was so fearful for the
success of our exhibition. But my fears were groundless, and we were
greeted at the finish of our dance with hearty applause, which was more
than compensation for the work which had been expended upon its
learning.
 My
father was certainly not what in the ordinary acceptation of the term
would be called “a good dancer.” I doubt whether he had ever received
any instruction in “the noble art” other than that which my sister and I
gave him. In later years I remember trying to teach him the Schottische,
a dance which he particularly admired and desired to learn. But although
he was so fond of dancing, except at family gatherings in his own or his
most intimate friends' homes, I never remember seeing him participate,
and I doubt if, even as a young man, he ever went to balls. Graceful in
motion, his dancing, such as it was, was natural to him. Dance music was
delightful to his cheery, genial spirit; the time and steps of a dance
suited his tidy nature, if I may so speak. The action and the exercise
seemed to be a part of his abundant vitality.
While I am writing of my
father's fondness for dancing, a characteristic anecdote of him occurs
to me. While he was courting my mother, he went one summer evening to
call upon her. The Hogarths were living a little way out of London, in
a residence which had a drawing-room opening with French windows on to a
lawn. In this room my mother and her family were seated quietly after
dinner on this particular evening, when suddenly a young sailor jumped
through one of the open windows into the apartment, whistled and danced
a hornpipe, and before they could recover from their amazement jumped
out again. A few minutes later my father walked in at the door as
sedately as though quite innocent of the prank and shook hands with
everyone; but the sight of their amazed faces proving too much for his
attempted sobriety, his hearty laugh was the signal for the rest of the
party to join his merriment. But, judging from his slight ability in
later years, I fancy that he must have taken many lessons to secure his
perfection in that hornpipe.
THE
MERRIEST OF THEM ALL
His dancing was at its best, I think, in the “Sir Roger de Coverly”— known in
America, I am told, as the “Virginia Reel”— and in what are known
as country dances. In the former, while the end couples are dancing, and
the side couples are supposed to be still, my father would insist upon
the sides keeping up a kind of jig step, and clapping his hands to add
to the fun, and dancing at the backs of those whose enthusiasm he
thought needed rousing, was himself never still for a moment until the
dance was over. He was very fond of a country dance which he learned at
the house of some dear friends at Rockingham Castle, which began with
quite a stately minuet to the tune of “God Save the Queen,” and then
dashed suddenly into “Down the Middle and up Again.” His enthusiasm in
this dance, I remember, was so great that, one evening after some of our Tavistock House theatricals, when I was
thoroughly worn out with fatigue, being selected by him as his partner,
I  caught the infection of his merriment, and my weariness vanished. As
he himself says, in describing dear old “Fezziwig's”
Christmas party, we were “people who would dance, and had no notion of
walking.” His enjoyment of all our frolics was equally keen, and he
writes to an American friend, apropos of one of
our
Christmas merry makings: “Forster is out again; and if he don't go in
again after the manner in which we have been keeping Christmas, he must
be very strong indeed. Such dinings, such conjurings, such blindman's
buffings, such theatre goings, such kissings out of old years and
kissings in of new ones never took place in these parts before. To keep
the Chuzzlewit going, and to do this little book, the carol, in the odd
times between two parts of it, was, as you may suppose, pretty tight
work. But when it was done I broke out like a madman, and if you could
have seen me at a children's party at Macready's the other night going
down a country dance with Mrs. M. you would have thought I was a country
gentleman of independent property residing on a tip-top farm, with the
wind blowing straight in my face every day.”
AS A CONJURER
At
our holiday frolics he used sometimes to conjure for us, the equally
“noble art” of the prestidigitator  being
among his accomplishments. He writes of this, which he included in the
list of our Twelfth Night amusements, to another American friend: “The
actuary of the national debt couldn't calculate the number of children who
are coming here on Twelfth Night, in honor of Charlie's
birthday, for which occasion I have provided a magic lantern and divers other
tremendous engines of that nature. But the best of it is that Forster
and I have purchased between us the entire stock-in-trade of a conjurer,
the practice and display whereof is entrusted to me. And if you could
see me conjuring the company's watches into impossible tea-caddies and
causing pieces of money to fly, and burning pocket handkerchiefs without
burning ‘em and practicing in my own room without anybody to admire, you
would never forget it as long as you live.” One of these conjuring
tricks comprised the disappearance and reappearance of a tiny doll,
which would announce most unexpected pieces of news and messages to the
different children in the audience; this doll was a particular favorite,
and its arrival eagerly awaited and welcomed.
That he loved to
emphasize Christmas in every possible way, the following extract from a
note which he sent me in December, 1868, will evidence. After speaking
of a reading which he was to give on Christmas Day, he says: “It occurs
to me that my table at St. James's Hall might be appropriately
ornamented with a little holly next Tuesday. If the two front legs were
entwined with it, for instance, and a border of it ran round the top of
the fringe in front, with a little sprig by way of bouquet at each
corner, it would present a seasonable appearance. If you think of this
and will have the materials ready in a little basket, I will call for
you at the office and take you up to the hall where the table will be
ready for you.”
 CHRISTMAS AT GAD'S
HILL
But
I think that our Christmas and New Year's tides at Gad's Hill were the happiest of all.
Our house was always filled with guests, while a cottage in the village
was reserved for the use of the bachelor members of our holiday party.
My father, himself, always deserted work for the week, and that was
almost our greatest treat. He was the fun and life of those gatherings,
the true Christmas spirit of sweetness and hospitality filling his large
and generous heart. Long walks with him were daily treats to be
remembered. Games passed our evenings in jollity. “Proverbs,” a game of
memory, was very popular, and it was one in which either my aunt or
myself was apt to prove winner. Father's annoyance at our failure
sometimes to lead was very amusing, but quite genuine. “Dumb Crambo” was another favorite, and
one in which my father's great imitative ability showed finely. I
remember one evening his dumb showing of the word “frog” was so
extremely laughable that the memory of it convulsed Marcus Stone, our clever artist, when
he tried some time later to portray it in his choice pantomime.
One very severe
Christmas, when the snow was so deep as to make out-door amusement or
entertainment for our guests impossible, my father suggested that he and
the inhabitants of the “bachelors' cottage” should pass the time in
unpacking the French chalet, which had been sent to him by Mr. Fechter,
and which reached Higham Station in a large number of packing cases.
Unpacking these and fitting the pieces together gave them interesting
employment, and us some topics of conversation for our snow-bound
luncheon table.
OUR CHRISTMAS DINNERS
Our
Christmas day dinners at Gad's Hill were particularly bright and cheery,
some of our nearest  neighbors
joining our home party. Dinner on all occasions, plain day and holiday,
was served, by my
father's special desire, a la Russe. But on
Christmas day this rule was infringed sufficiently to permit the
appearance at the table of our holiday pudding. The Christmas plum
pudding had its own special dish of colored “repoussé” china, ornamented
with holly. The pudding was placed on this with a sprig of real holly in
the center, lighted, and in this state placed in front of my father, its
arrival being always the signal for applause. A prettily decorated table
was his special pleasure, and from my earliest girlhood the care of this
devolved upon me. When I had everything in readiness, he would come with
me to inspect the result of my labors, before dressing for dinner, and
no word except of praise ever came to my ears.
He was a wonderfully neat
and rapid carver, and I am happy to say taught me some of his skill in
this. I used to help him in our parties at Gad's Hill by carving at a
side table, returning to my seat opposite him as soon as my duty was
ended. In a large party he sat at the center of one of the sides of the
table, I, directly opposite, facing him. On Christmas Day we all had our
glasses filled, and then my father, raising his, would say: “Here's to
us all. God bless us!” a toast which was rapidly and willingly drunk.
His conversation, as may be imagined, was often extremely humorous, and
I have seen the servants, who were waiting at table, convulsed often
with laughter at his droll remarks and stories. Now as I recall these
gatherings, my sight grows blurred with the tears that rise to my eyes.
But I love to remember them, and to see, if only in memory, my father at
his own table, surrounded by his family and friends—a beautiful
Christmas spirit. "It is good to be children sometimes, and never better
than at Christmas, when, its Mighty Founder was a child himself,” was
his own advice, and advice which he followed both in letter and spirit.
A NEW YEAR'S EVE
FROLIC
 One
morning—it was the last day of the year, I remember—while we were at
breakfast at Gad's Hill, my father suggested that we should celebrate
the evening by a charade to be acted in pantomime. The suggestion was
received with acclamation, and amid shouts and laughing we were then and
there, guests and members of the family, allotted our respective parts.
My father went about collecting, “stage properties,” rehearsals were
“called” at least four times during the morning, and in all our
excitement no thought was given to that necessary part of a charade, the
audience, whose business it is to guess the pantomime. At luncheon some
one asked suddenly:  “But what about an audience?” “Why, bless my soul,”
said my father, “I'd forgotten all about that.”
Invitations
were quickly dispatched to our neighbors, and additional preparations
made for supper. In due time the audience came, and the charade was
acted so successfully that the evening stands out in my memory as one of
the merriest and happiest of the many merry and happy evenings in our
dear old home. My father was so extremely funny in his part that the
rest of us found it almost impossible to maintain sufficient control
over ourselves to enable the pantomime to proceed as it was planned to
do. It wound up with a country dance, which had been invented that
morning and practiced quite a dozen times through the day, and which was
concluded at just a few moments before midnight. Then leading us all,
characters and audience, out into the wide hall, and throwing wide open
the door, my father, watch in hand, stood waiting to hear the bells ring
in the New Year. All was hush and silence after the laughter and
merriment! Suddenly the peal of bells sounded, and turning he said: “A
happy New Year to us all! God bless us.” Kisses, good wishes
and shaking of hands brought us again back to the fun and gaiety of a
few moments earlier. Supper was served; the hot mulled wine drunk in
toasts, and the maddest and wildest of “Sir Roger de Coverlys” ended our
evening and began our New Year.
NEW YEAR ON THE GREEN
One
New Year's Day my father organized some field sports in a meadow which
was at the back of our house. “Foot races for the villagers come off in
my field tomorrow,” he wrote to a friend, “And we have  been
hard at work all day, building a course, making countless, flags, and I
don't know what else. Layard—now Sir Henry Layard— is chief commissioner
of the domestic police. The country police predict an immense crowd.”
There were between two and three thousand people present at these
sports, and by a kind of magical influence, my father seemed to rule
every creature present to do his or her best to maintain order. The
likelihood of things going wrong was anticipated, and, despite the very
general prejudice of the neighbors against the undertaking, my father's
belief and trust in his guests was not disappointed. But you shall have
his own account of his success. “We had made a very pretty course,” he
wrote, “and taken great pains. Encouraged by the cricket matches'
experience, I allowed the landlord of the Falstaff to have a drinking
booth on the ground. Not to seem to dictate or distrust, I gave all the
prizes in money. The great mass of the crowd were laboring men of all
kinds, soldiers, sailors and navies. They did not, between half-past
ten, when we began, and sunset, displace a rope or a stake; and they
left every barrier and flag as neat as they found it. There was not a
dispute, and there was no drunkenness whatever. I made them a little
speech from the lawn at the end of the games, saying that, please God,
we would do it again next year. They cheered most lustily and dispersed.
The road between this and Chatham was like a fair all day; and surely it
is a fine thing to get such perfect behavior out of a reckless seaport
town.” He little realized, I am sure, that it was the magnetic power in
himself which gave him the love and honor of all classes, which gave the
day's sport its great success.
TWELFTH NIGHT
FESTIVITIES
My
father was again in his element at the Twelfth Night parties to which I
have before alluded. For  many
consecutive years, Miss Coutts, now the Baroness Burdett Coutts, was in the
habit of sending
my brother, on this his birthday anniversary, the most
gorgeous of Twelfth-cakes, with an accompanying box of bonbons and
Twelfth Night characters. The cake was cut, and the favors and bonbons
distributed at the birthday supper, and it was then that my father's
kindly, genial nature overflowed in merriment. He would have something
droll to say to every one, and under his attentions the shyest child
would brighten and become merry. No one was overlooked or forgotten by
him; like the young Cratchits, he was “ubiquitous.” Supper
was followed by songs and recitations from the various members of the
company, my father acting always as master of ceremonies, and calling
upon first one child, then another for his or her contribution to the
festivity. I can see now the anxious faces turned toward the beaming,
laughing eyes of their host. How attentively he would listen, with his
head thrown slightly back, and a little to one side, a happy smile on
his lips. O, those merry, happy times, never to be forgotten by any of
his own children, or by any of their guests. Those merry, happy times!
And in writing thus of
these dear old holidays, when we were all so happy in our home, and when
my father was with us, let me add this little postscript, and greet you
on this Christmas of 1892 with my father's own words: “Reflect upon your
present blessings—of which every man has many—not on your past
misfortunes, of which all men have some. Fill your glass again with a
merry face and contented heart. Our life on it, but your Christmas shall
be merry and your New Year a happy one. So may the New Year be a happy
one to you, happy to many more whose happiness depends on you! So may
each year be happier than the last and not the meanest of our brethren
or sisterhood debarred their rightful share in what our great Creator
formed them to enjoy."
[This was the second article in Miss
Dickens' series of reminiscent articles titled, "My Father as I Recall Him,"which appeared in the Ladies Home Journal in 1892.] |
