This young girl—to whom a touching interest attached from her being so prematurely cut off—was a most interesting creature, one of three sisters, daughters of Mr. George Hogarth, a Writer to the Signet, who is a sort of link between Scott and Dickens. For he had acted as the former’s man of business in the Ballantyne disputes, and must have prompted Dickens in the article that he wrote on that thorny subject. He was a good musician and a writer in the magazines. We find his work in the old “Monthly Magazine” where Dickens made his dÉbut; and when Boz was installed as editor of “Bentley’s,” we find him admitting much of his father-in-law’s writing. His “Memoirs of the Opera” are well-known. There is a charming outline sketch of Maclise’s, showing the profiles of two of the sisters with Dickens, all three of the most refined and interesting cast—but Boz’s face is certainly the handsomest of the three. He must have been a most attractive young man—something of the pattern of his own Nicholas Nickleby.

One of the most interesting features of the episode is the reference the author was constantly making to this bereavement. In the rollicking “Pickwick,” any serious introduction of such a topic would have been out of place: though I fancy a little paragraph in the account of the Manor Farm Christmas festivities is connected with it. But about the same time, or rather, some six months later, he was busy with his “Oliver Twist,” and it seems certain that Rose Maylie was drawn from this sympathetic creature, for there is a feeling and a passionate grief displayed that could only be caused by the loss of a person that he had known and loved. Here is his description of Rose:—“The younger lady was in the lovely bloom and springtime of womanhood, at that age when, if ever angels be for God’s good purposes enthroned in mortal forms, they may be without impiety supposed to abide in such forms as hers. She was not past seventeen. Cast in so slight and exquisite a mould; so mild and gentle; so pure and beautiful; that earth seemed not her element, nor its rough creatures her fit companions.”

We may compare with this the touching inscription placed by Dickens on her tomb in Kensal Green: “Young, beautiful and good, God, in His mercy, numbered her among His angels at the early age of seventeen.” He had long planned that he should be laid beside her, but on Mrs. Hogarth’s death, some five years later, he had to resign his place to her. This was a renewal of the old grief. The epitaph nearly seems the epitome of all that he says of Rose Maylie.

“The very intelligence that shone in her deep blue eye, and was stamped upon her noble head, seemed scarcely of her age, or of the world; and yet the changing expression of sweetness and good humour, the thousand lights that played upon the face and left no shadow there; above all, the smile, the cheerful, happy smile, were for Home, and fireside peace and happiness.” She is then described as “playfully putting back her hair, which was simply braided on her forehead; and threw into her beaming look such an expression of affection and artless loveliness that blessed spirits might have smiled to look upon her.”

The earnestness, the feeling of sincerity thrown into this description—the tone of reality—leave a conviction that this must have been drawn from a person who had lived and in whom the writer had the deepest interest. Further, it is clearly the description of a person who had passed away: of one who was no longer with him. [66] “She was at the theatre with us on Saturday night, well and happy, and expired in my arms a few hours afterwards.” So he wrote to Mr. Cox.

At the end, he returns to the subject, and retouches the picture:

“I would show Rose Maylie in all the bloom and grace of early womanhood, shedding on her secluded path in life the soft and gentle light that fell on all who trod it with her and shone into their hearts; I would paint her the life and joy of the fireside circle, and the lively summer group; I would follow her through the sultry fields at noon, and hear the low tones of her sweet voice in the moonlit evening walk; I would watch her in all her goodness and charity abroad, and the untiring discharge of domestic duties at home; I would summon before me again those joyous little faces that clustered round her knee; I would recall the tone of that clear laugh, and conjure up that sympathizing tear that glistened in the soft, blue eye. These, and a thousand looks and smiles, and turns of thought and speech, I would fain recall them, every one.”

Again, it is clear that all this is personal, and written of one that he knew and deeply loved.

In “Nickleby,” there is yet another allusion to this sad subject—it is suggested by Kate’s grief for Smike:

“It is an exquisite and beautiful thing in our nature that, when the heart is softened and touched by some tranquil happiness or affectionate feeling, the memory of the dead comes over it most powerfully and irresistibly. It would almost seem as though our better thoughts and sympathies were charms in virtue of which the soul is enabled to hold some vague and mysterious intercourse with the spirits of those whom we dearly loved in life. Alas! how often and how long may these patient angels hover above us, watching for the spell which is so seldom uttered, and so soon forgotten.”

This is no artificial utterance. He had clearly interrupted himself to indulge in this sad retrospect. He then points a moral from Mrs. Nickleby, who, he says, could not conceive the idea of anyone dwelling on such thoughts in secret. I have always had a notion that this worthy lady’s incongruities and rambling methods were suggested by one of his own household, whose imperfection was found to be a complete lack of sympathy with him in all his feelings.

The devotion of Oliver Twist to Rose, it is not fanciful to say, was intended to symbolise his own to Mary. We can recall the passionate, agitated excitement with which Rose’s illness is described—the hanging on the doctor’s sentence, &c.—a reminiscence certainly, and we have only to look at the sketch by Cruikshank of his friend (given in my “Bozland”) to recognise the likeness to Oliver. Oliver’s sufferings were his own.

How tremendous the blow of her death must have been to the successful writer may be conceived when he did not scruple to interrupt the book and cast it aside altogether from sheer incapacity to write a line. The June number did not appear. No one can imagine the inconvenience, the loss, the enormous risks that were run by taking this step—the horror and consternation of the publishers and all concerned. It proved how indifferent he had become to his prospects and prosperity when he could hazard such a thing. The first of the month came round, but no “Pickwick.” It was a public catastrophe. When he was able to resume his story, he found it necessary to issue an explanation in the form of an address. [68]

186 Strand,
June 30th, 1837.

The author is desirous to take the opportunity afforded him by the resumption of his work to state, once again, what he thought had been stated sufficiently emphatically before, namely, that its publication was interrupted by a severe domestic affliction of no ordinary kind; that this was the sole cause of the non-appearance of the present number in its usual course; that, hereafter, it will continue to be published with its accustomed regularity. However superfluous this second notice may appear to many, it is rendered necessary by various idle speculations and absurdities which have been industriously propagated during the past month and which have reached the author’s ears from many quarters, and have grieved him exceedingly. By one set of intimate acquaintances, especially well-informed, he has been killed outright; by another, driven mad; by a third, imprisoned for debt; by a fourth, left per steamer for the United States; by a fifth, rendered incapable of mental exertion for evermore; by all, in short, represented as doing anything but seeking by a few weeks’ retirement, the restoration of cheerfulness and peace, of which a sad bereavement has necessarily deprived him.