coming hand over hand down an imaginary
cord; at the end of which there is one stroke on the drum, and a
kneeling to the chandelier? If Fireworks can't do that--and won't
somewhere--I'm a Dutchman."

Graver things now claim a notice which need not be proportioned to their
gravity, because, though they had an immediate effect on Dickens's
fortunes, they do not otherwise form part of his story. But first let me
say, he was at Broadstairs for three weeks in the autumn;[108] we had
the private play on his return; and a month later, on the 28th of
October, a sixth child and fourth son, named Alfred Tennyson after his
godfathers d'Orsay and Tennyson, was born in Devonshire-terrace. A death
in the family followed, the older and more gifted of his ravens having
indulged the same illicit taste for putty and paint which had been fatal
to his predecessor. Voracity killed him, as it killed Scott's. He died
unexpectedly before the kitchen-fire. "He kept his eye to the last upon
the meat as it roasted, and suddenly turned over on his back with a
sepulchral cry of _Cuckoo_!" The letter which told me this (31st of
October) announced to me also that he was at a dead lock in his
Christmas story: "Sick, bothered and depressed. Visions of Brighton come
upon me; and I have a great mind to go there to finish my second part,
or to Hampstead. I have a desperate thought of Jack Straw's. I never was
in such bad writing cue as I am this week, in all my life." The reason
was not far to seek. In the preparation for the proposed new Daily Paper
to which reference has been made, he was now actively assisting, and had
all but consented to the publication of his name.

I entertained at this time, for more than one powerful reason, the
greatest misgiving of his intended share in the adventure. It was not
fully revealed until later on what difficult terms, physical as well as
mental, Dickens held the tenure of his imaginative life; but already I
knew enough to doubt the wisdom of what he was at present undertaking.
In all intellectual labour, his will prevailed so strongly when he fixed
it on any object of desire, that what else its attainment might exact
was never duly measured; and this led to frequent strain and unconscious
waste of what no man could less afford to spare. To the world gladdened
by his work, its production might always have seemed quite as easy as
its enjoyment; but it may be doubted if ever any man's mental effort
cost him more. His