ent by our gracious Queen.' He commenced
to give us a specimen, but after hearing one verse there arose a
cry of universal execration. He pretended to be vexed at our
'shutting him up.' said there was nothing wrong in it, he had
written a great deal worse himself; and when we were going to enter
the carriages he said: 'Now, look here! I give due notice to all
and sundry, that I mean to sing that song, and a good many others,
during the ride; so those ladies who think them vulgar can go in
the other carriages. I am not going to invest my hard-earned penny
for nothing.' I was quite certain that Charles Dickens was the last
man in the world to shock the modesty of any female, and too much
of a gentleman to do anything that was annoying to us, but I
thought it as well to go in the other carriage; and so he had no
ladies with him but his wife and Mrs. S----. I was not sorry,
however, to be where I was, as I heard for the next half-hour
portions of those songs wafted on the breeze; and the bursts of
laughter from ladies and gentlemen and the mischievous twinkle in
Dickens's eye proved that he was in such a madcap mood that it was
as well there were none but married people with him,--the subject
being of a 'Gampish' nature. But he was not always full of spirits
or even-tempered,--indeed, I was sometimes puzzled by the
variability of his moods."

Anecdotes like the following, told by Blanchard Jerrold, abound in all
writers who wrote of Dickens from personal knowledge:--

"A very dear friend of mine, and of many others to whom literature
is a staff, had died. To say that his family had claims upon
Dickens is to say that they were promptly acknowledged and
satisfied, with the grace and heartiness which double the gift,
sweeten the bread, and warm the wine. I asked a connection of our
dead friend whether he had seen the poor wife and children. 'Seen
them?' he answered. 'I was there to-day. They are removed into a
charming cottage. They have everything about them; and just think
of this: when I burst into the room, in my eager survey of the new
home, I saw a man in his shirt-sleeves up some steps, hammering
away lustily. He turned. It was Charles Dickens, and he was hanging
the pictures for the widow. . . . Dickens was the soul of truth and
manliness as well as k