, 1888-05-05
"REMINISCENCES OF DICKENS.


His Love of Mischief.
One day Millie and 1 were standing on
the balcony of our house when Dickens
came ssuntering by. On seeing US he
promptly struck an attitude, with one
hand pressed to his heart, and the other
thrown out aloft, as he spouted dramati-
cally:
otis my lady! It's my love! Oh,
that l were a glove upon that hand, that
l might touch that cheekr'
(Which of us do you intend to be
Juliet to your Romeol" inquired Mile.
Whichever you choose, my little
dears!' he answered, touching his hat
airily and strOlling IN. Next morning
we were there again as he passed, this
time with merely an ungracious "How
do!' He was weaving his ideas, and
naturally was bored by interruption.
Afterward, when his face bore this alb
stracted look, 1 always pretended not to
see him. 1t saved him the trouble of be-
ing obliged to recognize me, did not en-
croach on his composing mood, and alto
gether pleased him. l was horribly
afraid of him sometimes, and told him so
once, greatly to his amusement.
Seeing him then, calm and solemn as
the Sphinx, it was difficult to imagine
the amount of mischievous fun of which
he was capable. To give an example.
We were on the pier one evening, having
been amusing ourselves by dancing a
quadrille, in a railed-off space which
Dickens had named the Family Pew, be-
cause it contained seats on two sides. He
was in high spirits, as he enjoyed being
here at dusk, where he escaped the scru-
tiny of the gaping throng." He con-
IAgnnr1nl q. -,-f.w.. - ~
and a piece of paper, while Fred whistled,
the two thus doing duty as 'band.n
After our caperings we strolled toward
the end Of the little pier, to watch the
tide ripping in under the fading light.
The scene had become weird and
the night seeming to drop suddenly down
without a star or moon; the only light a
lingering phosphorescent CLEAN on the
crest of the waves.
All at onca the spirit of the hour-a
demon of mischief evidently-seemed to
take possession of Dickens. He flung his
arm around me and whirled me with
him down the inclined plane of the ictty,
toward a tall upright pole fixed at the
extreme end. To this pole he chung with
his other arm, while he informed me in
theatrical accents that he intended to
hold me there until the wild waves over
whelmed us.
"Thinkl' he cried, mouthing every
word. ''Think of the sensation we shall
createI Think of the road to celebrity
which we are about to tread-no, l
mean, not exactly to tread, but to
founder intol'
Here 1 entreated him TO let me go,
while 1 struggled desperately to free my
self.
"Let your mind dwell on the column
in The Times, where will be wildly de-
scribed the fate of the lovely Emma
P, drowned by Dickens in a fit of
demential Don't struggle, poor little
birdl you are powerless in the claws of
such a kite as this childl''
The last glimnier of light was now
gone, and close to us was the dark
mystery of the surging water, very black,
very cold, and above all coming nearer
very rapidly. With a horrid plash il
dashed over my feetl screamed out:
"Ohl my dress; my best dress, my only
silk dress will be ruinedl"
He was not softened in the least by this
tragic appeal, but continued ranting non
sensically and painting with his exertions
to hold me, and with his suppressed
laughter. Then 1 gave a wild shrek.
Mrs. Dickensl help mel-make Mr..
Dickens let me go The waves are up to
my kneesl'
''Charlesl" Mrs. Dickens called in
frantic accents. 'tHow al you be so
silly2 You will both be carried off by
the waves (then falling from pathos to
bathos) and you'll spoil the poor girls
silk dress"
"DressI" shouted Dickens with scorn.
Talk not to me of dress! When the pail
of night is enshrouding us in Cimmerian
darkness, when we already stand on the
brink of the great mystery, shall our
thoughts be of such v%anities? Am l not
lmmolating a brand new pair of patent
feathers still unpaid for? Perish such
low born thoughts2 In this hour of
abandonment to the voice of destiny,
shall we be held back by the puerilities of
silken raiment2 Shall leather or prunella
(whatever that may be- stop the bolt of
fatel'' The sudden parenthetical change
from high flown rant back again to
ordinary accents was most ridiculous.
Here l succeeded in struggling out of
his grasp, and fled to my friends, almost
crying with vexation, my only silk
dress clinging round my saturated limbs,
and leaving a watery track as l stumbled
on.-New York Tribune.