Charles Dickens’ beginnings marked him as all our
circumstances do. To be sure, there were those far worse off than himself. However, pain is a relative condition. In the complicated cauldron of our expectations,
our unmet needs, the influences of those around us, and the sheer uniqueness of
every person, we concoct our window through which we see the world,
interpreting reality in our own context.
With that perception, we evaluate our condition. In that estimation, Charles was most
troubled.
Dickens’ father John,
to whom Charles had been close was jolly in demeanor but as expansive in his
spending as he was in his impression of himself. His inability to manage his
finances led to catastrophic financial failure which eventually landed him in Marshalsea,
a debtors’ prison. Catastrophic not only
because of the humiliation it brought upon the Dickens’, but also because according
the conventions of the system, the prisoner was kept while members of the
family would be required to work to satisfy the debt. Charles’ siblings were, for the most part,
too young to earn wages anywhere. Perhaps
the only one, other than Charles, that could contribute was his older sister
Fanny. However, she was enrolled at the
Royal Academy of Music and her parents were resolute that she should continue
her education there, despite their circumstances. That left Charles to labor in behalf of the
family’s financial needs.
Charles’ pain over this situation had not drained his
spirits all at once. Rather, it was the
culmination of the three prior years of emotional bloodletting. Until 9-years-old, he led the ordinary life
of a middle-class child in the early 19th century. However, it was at one moment that year he
had a sudden realization: his father had no intention of facilitating Charles’ education. Charles’ physical stature was small, but he
had an active mind and he knew it. He
craved following a course that would allow him to develop himself. This understanding of his father’s lack of aspiration
for Charles, threw him into a depression.
This was exacerbated by Fanny’s acceptance at the Royal Academy of
Music, and the contrast devastated him.
The next few years did nothing but affirm his doubts and
fears. Just before his father was incarcerated
at Marshalsea, Charles’ parents had agreed to have him work in a shoe polish
factory to contribute what little pittance he could to the satisfaction of the Dickens’
debt. He was to share living quarters
with other boys near his work, living apart from his family. Soon after John entered Marshalsea, Charles’
mother gave up the house and moved herself and children in with her husband as
was permitted in the system. They were
now all together, except for Charles. When
the family’s situation improved enough to permit their release and enable
Charles to leave the factory, his mother resisted. She tried to keep him there
to supplement the family income so that his sister could continue with her
study of the arts and she could invest in baubles and clothes in grand measure
for herself. There were many in worse arrangements. In the most abhorrent of working conditions, untold
numbers – many of whom were children – died in their labor under the hands of
merciless employers.
Just around the corners and down the alleys from the
factories were yet more, starving in the shadows, hidden enough so that those who
would not like to look would not have to see.
But has already been said, one’s pain is measured against their own expectations,
and for the young boy who adored his family and had dreams of Cambridge
University, sitting alone in the front window of the polish factory as he
applied labels, day after day, listening to the rats scurry beneath him, was
torture and nothing could seem worse.
Such challenges create forks in our life journey, one branch
a concession to the belief that our conditions are unchangeable, and the other
a path of self-determination in which we take ownership for attempting to
ascend to a higher and better place. Far
too many, if not most, drift down the well-trodden path of submission, lost and
hopeless, seeing themselves as the unchangeable byproduct of their misfortune.
But for Charles, whether by divine providence, strength of
will or some combination of these and other forces, the less common path was
taken. His experience planted within him
seeds that would inform the artistry of his life. It created a perspective through which he
would view the world and allow him to see what to others had become invisible –
the poor, the impoverished, the downtrodden. He had emerged from at least the
perimeter of those same shadows and the memory of all his senses did not fade
with time. It was more than their physical
condition that pained him. It was the
draining of their soul, the settling for a life of subsistence and survival, or
something short of it, that that created both sadness and alarm. In the richly textured society of the time,
these people were a gray swath of background behind the images of those who
were enjoying success. He gave them
something they did not and could not possess on their own. He became their voice.
In focusing the lens of public perception, he brought them
into view in the colorful, individual lives of Oliver Twist and the Artful
Dodger, of Nicholas Nickleby and Noggs, of the beloved Nell and her grandfather,
and many more. He also gave a face and character to those who would take
advantage of them: Fagin, Uncle Ralph, Quilp, and others whose principle sins
were ignorant self-centeredness and vacuous hearts. He disarmed the reading public through his
humor, and in their softened state, introduced them to his protagonists who
were rich, deep characters, flawed but endearing. As they became familiar to his readers, he exposed
their sufferings.
Dickens had found his calling. He enjoyed increasing success as he
progressed from The Posthumous Papers of
the Pickwick Club to The Adventures
of Oliver Twist to The Life and
Adventures of Nicholas Nickleby. By
the time his fourth novel, The Old Curiosity
Shop was serialized, as most of his works were, his publisher was selling
100,000 copies per monthly installment. Charles
was easily enjoying the greatest market share of readership of any author in his
time, and perhaps any time until then.
His work spawned a nearly infinite variety of related endeavors, from
illegally produced plays to porcelain figurines of his characters. England had become indeed, all things Dickens
and the popularity of his work had spread beyond its shores. From publishing his first sketch “A Dinner at
Poplar Walk” in 1833 at twenty-one years old, now eight years later, he was the
greatest author in the British Empire.
He was telling the public what they themselves were ignoring at their
peril, and they were asking for more, 100,000 editions at a time.
While Dickens greatest failures would qualify for heady success among most authors, one’s yardstick is often laid against their own distance already run and Dickens’ primary competition was Dickens’. Barnaby Rudge, a fictional story set during the Gordon Riots of 1780, the same time as the war for American Independence, was a departure for Dickens. Somehow, the essence of Dickens’ talents became lost in the story. His characters failed to inspire, even among his greatest supporters. Literary critics have analyzed Rudge and placed it near, or at the very bottom of his works. The public seemed to agree, finding it less appealing than his previous stories. Sales of the serialized novel dropped from 100,000 to 30,000.
This created an inversion of finances with his publisher Chapman
and Hall, and Dickens’ advance on royalties exceeded the revenue they were receiving
for Rudge. In addition, Dickens had
talked them into financing his taking some time off to recover from
exhaustion. The pressure was mounting to
produce a success that would begin satisfying the debt.
There was no peace on the personal front either. Dickens father, ever enterprising upon his
son’s success, was selling early drafts of Dickens’ work without Charles’
permission, which seemed positively virtuous compared to his eventual forging of
Dickens name on invoices for his own rich tastes and sending them to Dickens
publisher. Charles and his wife
Catherine had their fourth child, Walter, in early 1841, and the pressures of
his growing family, his extravagant tastes and his meteoric popularity and
subsequent decline left their relationship strained.
Dickens could not see the cause of the problem. As he evaluated the situation, it was not the
quality of his work that had diminished, but his growing numbers of critics who
sought to make their own name by diminishing his. Misdirected by his own pride, he was not
weighed down with remorse or guilt, but with anger. He sought a diversion, something to take his
mind off the unfair situation he endured.
His friend and focus of admiration, fellow writer Washington
Irving, suggested he come to America.
Great authors of the time were venturing into the world and writing travelogues
of their observations, a sure seller in Dickens’ case due to his public that
yearned for another success. With the triumph
of Curiosity Shop, Irving was certain Dickens would enjoy great adulation in
the states. The idea appealed to
him. Dickens was enamored with America,
having made somewhat a study of it in Barnaby
Rudge. With his affinity for the
underdog, he idolized the country that was not seventy years old at that point and
yet had amassed an impressive history.
It was just the diversion he felt he needed.
In 1842, with renewed enthusiasm as a balm for his worsening
mood, he compelled his wife Catherine to join him on the Britannia, bound for
The United States. She hesitated because
of his condition that they leave their four children behind for the six-month
expedition, including their seven-month-old infant. However, Charles successfully
convinced or cajoled or compelled, and the two of them left for New York.
Dickens, initially invigorated by the gargantuan crowds he drew, quickly became disenchanted with America and Americans. His tendency to vary dramatically from an initial rosy view to one in which he could find nothing of redeeming value was a pattern he exhibited in many areas and manifested itself here. His discontent ranged appropriately from the practice of slavery, to his somewhat narcissistic repulse of what he saw as Americans’ complete lack of propriety regarding how he was addressed and how he was touched.
From the streets of Boston and New York to the Washington DC waiting room of President Tyler where he was to be received, he was put off by the smoking, the spitting and the loose manner of speech. Though his irritation with the lack of copyright protection in the United States was justified, he received many admonitions to drop the subject, at least from his speeches. Nonetheless, he used most every public opportunity to press his point, delivering a withering diatribe on how he and others were being wronged. The couple fled to Canada for a rest in the last month of their visit, and then returned home in June, leaving behind a public that was fascinated with the man, but found him pompous, ostentatious and “foppish.”
His summed up his experiences and observations in the
non-fiction, American Notes for General
Publication, his editorialized travelogue.
He used Americans and their homeland as the foil for criticism, very thinly
veiled in humor, and the venting his own disapproval.
American Notes
sold poorly in England, surprising Dickens with his countrymen’s disinterest in
the topic. Dickens now had rebranded himself. No longer the upbeat character who, with legitimate
concerns for the welfare of the poor, used humor to disarm and engage his
readers on the topic. He was now the
sullen critic, the acerbic observer and voluble witness of weakness, failure
and disillusionment. This tone was not
only unbecoming, more importantly, it did not sell books. It seems almost everyone understood this but
Dickens himself. He continued his onslaught
in, The Life and Adventures of Martin
Chuzzlewit. When the already low
sales of the serialized novel appeared at risk for further decline, he felt he
could give a lift to the story by having his protagonist visit America.
He satirized and lampooned the young nation. His readers found it neither humorous nor
appealing. “There is nothing that more offends the population of any country
than the interference of a foreigner with its laws and institutions,” wrote the
publication, The Atlantic Monthly in
a retrospective 30 years after his visit. “Dickens seemed to think that there
was something noble in the courage with which he put at risk his universal
popularity, in order to tell the Americans, face to face, that they were guilty
of injustice to himself…”. Dickens vitriolic lancing of American pride cost him
the friendship and respect of Washington Irving, not to mention further damaging
his sales records.
By 1843, life was indeed bleak for Dickens. England was in a devastating depression. Dickens’ literary disappointments had heaved
him into an excessive debt, falling further short of the sales commitments he
had made to his publisher Chapman and Hall.
His marriage to Catherine Hogarth was at best in a lull, at worst showing
of signs of weaknesses that might cripple it.
His image in the public eye, a factor of most importance to Dickens, was
that of a once great author who had peaked and had become lost in a self-centered
vortex of egotism, his demise only a matter of time, if not already past.
Then something remarkable, or really, a series of somethings
most remarkable, happened.
There are moments in time when disparate threads of our
lives, seemingly unrelated, are pulled together and wound tightly and upon
their emergence from that bond, have experienced a metamorphosis into a greatly
strengthened cord, that strength coming from their combination. Whether it was the invisible hand or the
pierced one that gathered these strands of Dickens’ life is left open for one’s
own conclusion, but gathered they were. In
this case, the threads were three catalytic events that would combine to change
the course of Dickens’ life.
The first had its source a few years earlier when Dickens had made the acquaintance of Angela Burdett-Coutts. She was the granddaughter of Thomas Coutts, founder of the banking firm, Coutts & Co. Just before her grandfather’s second wife died, this woman, kind of heart to young Angela, stipulated in her will that if the twenty-three-year-old would agree to never marry a foreigner and to never involve herself in the affairs of the bank, she would inherit 50% of Coutts’s personal fortune. These might seem unusually restrictive covenants until one realizes that this bequest totaled about 3 million pounds.
Angela agreed, changing her name from Burdett to Burdett-Coutts, and instantly joined the ranks of the wealthy, earning the label of the richest woman in England after the queen. Unusually, Angela did not fall prey to the temptations of indulgence common to high society living or to causes political in nature. Rather, she set about to improve the conditions and opportunities for the poor and raise the consciousness of the problem to the nation at large. Her role in this story is made significant by her acquaintance with the dynamic, popular young author Charles Dickens, who would afford her the perfect partnership to deploy her resources. Charles and Angela shared a common concern for the state of the poor and in this concern, she periodically engaged him to help her decide where to direct her philanthropic funds and efforts.
In 1843, Angela urged Charles to visit one of the so-called
‘Ragged Schools’ which provided free education for the indigent. Though noble
in their purpose, they typically ran radically short of funds for even the most
basic needs. Specifically, she suggested
he travel to the Field Lane School on Saffron Hill. In an ironic twist, the school, built in 1841,
was located in the exact location of the criminally infested section of London
where Dickens had fictionally placed Fagin’s den in Oliver Twist, and therefore
Dickens was no stranger to the surroundings, nor to the type of poverty that
created these conditions. Nonetheless,
he was deeply affected by his visit. Of
his observations of the young inhabitants of the ragged school he said, “…the
children in them are enough to break the heart and hope of any man.”
Upon hearing his reactions to the school, Miss
Burdett-Coutts immediately allocated resources to address what Dickens thought were
the most immediate problems, the simple inability to practice any hygiene
whatsoever, and the cramped conditions that made any kind of progress
unlikely. Forgetting himself, forgetting
the criticism levied against him, forgetting his peevish lack of tolerance for
others, Dickens re-immersed himself in the world about which he had written to
establish his career. If what he saw, by
his own words, would “break the heart and hope of any man”, then he was this man
– his own heart was broken, and as a result, became receptive for what was to
come.
The second strand was an invitation from his older sister,
Fan. She lived with her husband in the
suburbs of the great industrial town of Manchester. Where London was the center from which the
industrial revolution was steered, and all that was rising or sinking on its
tide – culture, the arts, society, and the like – Manchester was the engine, a city
singular in purpose. It was considered
the greatest industrial city in the land.
Often referred to as the “chimney of the world” the coal soot of its
many factories was a feature of everything that could be touched by the wind
which blew through its confines. With a
population nearing 400,000, it was the second largest city in England and a
third larger than a similar city in America, New York.
If its key products were said to be the heart of textile
manufacturing, it would also have to list one of its primary by-products the
poverty that accompanied the men who made those goods. A few years prior, an effort had begun to
construct an athenaeum, a building to house a library, a school for languages,
and other means to educate the masses of the public and support learning. While the project had been germinated in good
times, the recent depression left the completed building and its mission in
serious debt. Would he, his sister
queried, come speak at an event to raise funds to support the Manchester Athenaeum? He had had a busy year, with many charitable
speeches, and by his own writing revealed he had grown tired of the efforts,
both physically and emotionally. Therefore,
it is not clear why he accepted this invitation, but one could assume that his
heart, softened and pained at the sight of the children of Field Lane School, inspired
him to reinvigorate his platform that the education and support of the poor was
one of the most important things he could engage in.
He shared the stage that October night with two other
men. The first was Richard Cobden, a fiery
activist who had become the voice of the working man, seeking to end the tariffs,
such as the Corn Law, that protected the wealthy at the expense of the
poor. The other was a young man who had
left the study of law to become an author, writing a series of romance
novels. From there, he had also found
his way into parliament as a junior member.
His inclusion on the agenda that evening grew from his interest in
social improvement works. He was,
without a doubt, the least important of the three. In later years this man, Benjamin Disraeli
would go on to serve two terms as Prime Minister of England.
When Dickens turn came, he instantly mesmerized the
audience. Drawing upon the well of
inspiration that guided his life, he artfully spoke to the concerns of the
growing gap between rich and poor. He
spoke from experience about what he saw at Field Lane. He validated that while the intentions of his
antagonists in stories like The Old Curiosity
Shop and Oliver Twist were
fiction, they were based on facts that were even more brutal than presented to
his readers. His theme was to challenge
those who felt providing education for the poor could promote disastrous
consequences, a popular and widespread notion.
He engaged the audience with these famous lines:
“I do not know whether, at this time of
day, and with such a prospect before us, we need trouble ourselves very much to
rake up the ashes of the dead-and-gone objections that were wont to be urged by
men of all parties against institutions such as this, whose interests we are
met to promote; but their philosophy was always to be summed up in the
unmeaning application of one short sentence. How often have we heard from a large
class of men wise in their generation, who would really seem to be born and
bred for no other purpose than to pass into currency counterfeit and
mischievous scraps of wisdom, as it is the sole pursuit of some other criminals
to utter base coin–how often have we heard from them, as an all-convincing
argument, that “a little learning is a dangerous thing?” Why, a
little hanging was considered a very dangerous thing, according to the same
authorities, with this difference, that, because a little hanging was
dangerous, we had a great deal of it; and, because a little learning was
dangerous, we were to have none at all.”
When their laughter finally died down, Dickens became more
serious:
“Why, when I hear
such cruel absurdities gravely reiterated, I do sometimes begin to doubt
whether the parrots of society are not more pernicious to its interests than
its birds of prey. I should be glad to hear such people’s estimate of the
comparative danger of “a little learning” and a vast amount of ignorance;
I should be glad to know which they consider the most prolific parent of misery
and crime. Descending a little lower in the social scale, I should be glad to
assist them in their calculations, by carrying them into certain goals and
nightly refuges I know of, where my own heart dies within me, when I see
thousands of immortal creatures condemned, without alternative or choice, to
tread, not what our great poet calls the “primrose path” to the
everlasting bonfire, but one of jaded flints and stones, laid down by brutal
ignorance, and held together, like the solid rocks, by years of this most
wicked axiom.”
All attendees were electrified, and it triggered something
within Dickens.
That night, Dickens walked the dirty streets of Manchester nearly until dawn. The response of the crowd echoed in his ear, reaffirming to him the cause that he might best support with his natural gifts. He was humble, and he was inspired, and these two combusted within him. In these moments, and in many that would come in future, similar nocturnal walks in London, in this crucible, the third strand was added to the to the other two. From multiple biographies of the great author and from his own personal letters, it appears that over this period of time, he was given a gift – clarity of thought – that contained within it, three self-observations.
First, maybe it was not the critics and readers that were
wrong. Maybe, in fact, it was him. In a move most unusual in public figures, for
whom ego is often their primary conveyance, he examined himself. Maybe he had become lost in his anger and
disgust, and in so doing, cut himself off from his natural talents, and perhaps
in the process, his foreordained purpose.
Second, perhaps he could inform without preaching, educate
without intimidating, inspire without using guilt and encourage rather than
goad action. Perhaps he could return to
his style that allowed him to set the table with his stories and permit the
reader to voluntarily select what they were ready to hear, rather than be force-fed
a diet of thick, heavy culpability.
Finally, Dickens happened upon a most extraordinary thought:
change in human behavior does not and will not come from an external
force. It will never be permanently
engaged by device or demand. Change must
begin and come from within – from a change of heart. From this inner wellspring, actions will voluntarily
be altered, the effects of which will spread outward in concentric rings. If he were going to change the world, he
understood that the world must be changed by individuals, each of whom must undergo
a personal transformation.
A story began to form in his mind. This would be a tale of a man who embodied
the selfishness that was so destructive of the time. Even his name, Scrooge, would in onomatopoeic
fashion, evoke in the reader an understanding of his character. He would be given a gift, procured for him by
one like him – a former business partner who had died in his sins – to see the
impact of the choices he had made in his past, to see himself as the world now
saw him, and to see his future should his path not change. The supporting cast? Jacob Marley, the three
ghosts of Christmas, nephew Fred, Bob Cratchit, Tiny Tim, and two briefly
referenced children, one named Ignorance and the other Want.
According to the
words of his friend and biographer, John Forster, as Dickens walked, “with a strange
mastery it seized him.” Upon his return
to London, while trying to finish Martin Chuzzlewit,
he continued to find inspiration in nightly walks of sometimes fifteen miles,
and in crafting his story, he “wept over it, and laughed and wept again.” He would use the language of song, crafting
the chapters as “staves” or verses. It
would garner a simple title: A Christmas
Carol.
In six weeks’ time, the story was complete. His publisher’s lack of conviction for the
book led Dickens to confidently fund its production using his own resources. It was not just any Christmas story, and as
such, should not look like just any other.
The page edges were trimmed in gold and contained within them 8 illustrations
from his old friend, John Leech. The
cover was red cloth embossed in gold with the title, A Christmas Carol, and two boughs of holly leaves. The dedication
was simple, a message from a friend to a friend, unassuming and not preachy,
and toying with the concept of the spirits in his tale allowing the reader to
see he was not taking himself too seriously:
I HAVE endeavored in this Ghostly little
book, to raise the Ghost of an Idea, which shall not put my readers out of
humour with themselves, with each other, with the season, or with me. May it haunt their houses pleasantly, and no
one wish to lay it.
Their faithful Friend and Servant,
C.
D. December 1843.
The book was expensive
in its production for its size and length, due to Charles’ vision of its
appearance. At the same time, he wanted
it accessible to the masses, and priced it barely above his cost. On December 19, 1843, the first editions of A
Christmas Carol went on sale for 5 schillings.
Whatever doubt
the Dickens publisher had about the curious little book vanished as quickly as
the first printing. That printing of
6,000 copies sold out by Christmas Eve five days later. In response two more runs were initiated prior
to the end of that year. The enthusiasm
for the little book continued, and by the end of 1844, A Christmas Carol experienced
eleven more printings.
From that profound moment in 1843 to Dickens passing in 1870
he would write nine more novels, some to critical acclaim, some to criticism. He would also pen more than twenty additional
short stories, including four Christmas themed works, but none quite like
Christmas Carol.
More than 175 years have passed since this little book was
launched into the public consciousness. A Christmas Carol has quietly marched
on, to this day never having gone out of print from its first run on December
19, 1843. It plays on an untold number of stages large and small. Businessman and postman find the time to don
the hat and scarf, to memorize the lines, to huff humbug at Bob Cratchit. Director’s children learn to walk on a crutch
to utter the few, but most famous lines of A Christmas Carol. Neighbors and
friends sit in the audience, back for a second or fifth or twenty-fifth viewing
to fear, to laugh, to cry, to hope and to turn, perhaps only a bit, with the
transformation of the old man.
Its simple story in its simple package with its simple
message should never be underestimated.
Truth has a backbone that holds it erect in the face of the gravest of
challenges. It related and relates a message
that was fit for times of plenty, to spread our bounty. It is fit for times of need, to remember
those most hurt.
In this war we fight today for the hearts of man, it is as
unassuming a solider as there ever was, the Johnny Appleseed of that
infantry: diminutive and unassuming, but
as pure in heart as any and more than most. Yet onward it voyages, planting
seeds to be harvested by those that come upon the fruits of its message.
As long as there is at least one, and maybe only one heart
to lose itself in the care of others, we carry on. We are indeed fellow passengers, as nephew
Fred proclaimed to his uncle Scrooge. A
victory for one is a beacon for us all.
If that single heart is yours alone, then we as a people are not lost,
it is not over, and there is hope.
(Excerpted from the forthcoming book, The Third Greatest Christmas Story Ever Told, or How Charles Dickens and A Christmas Carol Won a Battle in the War for the Hearts of Man by R. William Bennett.)
In my life, I have many temporal
concerns. My daily life is full of work, worries, chores, and childcare, and I
rarely have the opportunity to express the joy I feel. I have struggled
financially my entire adult life, and have pieced together my traditions and
decorations exclusively from garage sales and 80%-off after-Christmas sales.
Nevertheless, at Christmastime, when I start pulling out my boxes of lights and
bins of ornaments and sorting through garlands and ribbons, I feel a great
surge of that spiritual joy that transcends mortal troubles.
Here is the one time of year when
I feel free to sing and shout to the world, “We have a Savior!”
Yes, we do service. Yes, we read
the nativity scriptures. A Christ-centered Christmas needs to include Him
explicitly, not just symbolically. But that doesn’t mean we need to feel guilty
about the symbolic ways we express our joy, just because those symbols mean
other things to other people.
I like to cover my house with
lights and leave them on too long because nothing less expresses the hugeness
of my joy. I like to fill my tree with color-coordinating ornaments and ribbons
because I feel it shows how carefully and seriously I treat my testimony. I
bake treats, and it’s the only time of year I do, because the overflowing love
I feel seems to call out for some new mode of expression that my ordinary life
doesn’t provide. I love to wrap lots of presents for my children, even when
it’s all socks and garage sale finds, because the singing and shouting magic of
coming downstairs on Christmas morning to see new presents under the tree is
the closest I can offer to teaching them the joy of the resurrection.
There is only one time of year it
is socially acceptable to shout my joy everywhere I go, with lights and
decorations and Christmas sweaters and gifts and songs on my house and porch
and heart. I will take that time, proudly, and rejoice for all I am worth.
Merry Christmas! And Joy to the
World!
