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Seashore Reveries
by Winifred Van Sickle
Bremerton, Washington 98310
When I perched on a piece of driftwood
To gaze at the silvery sea,
My toes dug into the sand, so warm,
While the sun shown high above me.
The waves roared in, and crashed, and broke,
The seagulls squawked overhead;
A ship, far out on the skyline, passed
With its flags of blue, white, and red.
Sandpipers scurried, and rock-crabs crawled,
As in the tide came gushing,
The shells, and the rocks, the smooth white stones.
All worn thin by its rushing.
Soft breezes blew, as I put on my shoes,
‘N’ reluctantly trudged away;
An hour with Nature and just my thoughts –
What a lovely, lovely day!
Dickens’ Last Words
by Philip Claxton Williams (BAPA)
London, SW 19, England
(This contribution, sent for our Dickens’ issues, is of such academic interest that it seems appropriate to publish it now, for although this is dated July, it is being cut into stencil June 9, just 101 years after the death of Dickens.)
Few features of Dickens’ voluminous works are more intriguing than his endings; the paragraphs that conclude his works are comparable to the keystones of baroque buildings of bold and flamboyant design.
All that Dickens penned was significant. His perorations are particularly so, perhaps because they reveal so much of the style and the whole of the spirit. In view of this fact it will be worth our while to examine some of them more closely.
In his first work of fiction, A Dinner at Poplar Walk, (that short story – little more than a character sketch – that meant so much to the young author and was a milestone in his life) we are presented with a pair of endings. The original one referred to “Mr. Minns, his cousin, and his pink-eyed poodle.” In the later and current editions, Dickens recast the final sentence to read “It was somewhere about three o’clock in the morning when Mr. Augustus Minns knocked feebly at the street door of his lodgings in Tavistock Street, cold, wet, cross and miserable. He made his will next morning, and his professional man informs us, in that strict confidence in which we inform the public, that neither the name of Mr. Octavius Budden, nor of Mrs. Amelia Budden, nor of Master Alexander August Budden, appears therein.”
A maturer finish, no doubt, but somehow lacking the irresponsible and youthful gaiety of the first. In some ways, the most important point is not the change, but the fact that the change was made. The occurrence has special significance. I shall refer to it again.
Pickwick Papers, Dickens’ first full-length work, ends with a description of the chief character’s retirement to Dulwich “attended by the faithful Sam, between whom and his master there exists a steady and reciprocal attachment that nothing but death will terminate.”
This was the type of attachment Dickens was to establish between himself and his readers, but in this case it was one that death itself was powerless to bring to a conclusion. It is several lifetimes since Dickens’ own last words (we shall deal with these later) were spoken, but the fact that the novelist has lain in his grave for more than a century does not detract one iota from his power over the minds of men. Life is short, indeed, but art, great art, imperishable.
The conclusion of Oliver Twist need not detain us, but we may take not of it as being reflective and rather sentimental. The close of Nicholas Nickleby in the same, but the wording is such that it seems both deeper and more delicate:
“The grass was green above the dead boy’s grave, and trodden by feet so small and light, that not a daisy drooped its head beneath their pressure. Through all the spring and summer-time, garlands of the fresh flowers wreathed by infant hands rested upon the stone, and, when the children came to change them lest they should wither and be pleasant to him no longer their eyes filled tears, and they spoke low and softly of their poor dead cousin.”
The last passages of the Old Curiosity Shop, sombre as they are, are concerned not so much with mortality as with change and the inevitableness of Time. After speaking of the demolition of the old shop, of Kit Nubbles’ increasing uncertainty as to where it stood, Dickens concludes on a grave, resigned, yet cheerful note:
“Such are changes which a few years bring about, and so do things pass away, like a tale that is told!”
As regards A Child’s History of England, Dickens concludes with a tribute to Queen Victoria, couched in the same impersonal terms as he might have employed to announce the death of Queen Ann. A paragraph before this (still to be regarded as part of the ending) is of greater import. Here Dickens plays tribute to America, and in those distant days, when most of the United States consisted of rough colonial settlements, crude and undeveloped, he seems to have visualised her inherent greatness. His remarks bear a hint of England losing ground as America progresses. It was a bold admission for an Englishman to make, the more so as it has taken a century to prove it true.
In Oliver Twist, Nickleby, and Old Curiosity Shop, the endings are fairly similar, but in Barnaby Rudge Dickens concluded with a humorous quip about Barnaby’s raven ‘Grip.’
The close of Martin Chuzzlewit is surprising; the sort of thing that arouses great admiration or dislike. Certainly, it is sentimental, but after all it was an age when men had the time for sentiment. Some measure of it is inevitable when there exists a chance of reflection. Another striking thing is the sustained use of archaic language:
“Ah, Tom, dear Tom, old friend! Thy head is prematurely grey, though Time has passed between thee and our old association, Tom.”
This is redolent of Charles Lamb, but I think we must admit that Dickens did not use the antiquated style quite so gracefully. None the less, there is a poetic sweep in these passages that lifts them above convention.
A Christmas Carol ends with the sublime and well-known benison, “God Bless Us, Every One!” The Chimes with New Years’ wishes. The Cricket on the Hearth, however, strikes a more serious note, hinting at tragedy lying behind mellow recollections:
“A Cricket sings upon the Hearth; a broken child’s toy lies upon the ground; and nothing else remains.”
The Battle of Life, with its strange, lurking sombreness, ends differently to what one might expect. Instead of a reflective, or even a sentimental note, it concludes with a passage in a classically ironic vein, reminiscent of Sterne or Fielding.
That other Christmas book, The Haunted Man, ends with a truly famous phrase; a phrase in which men have toasted the memory of Dickens for many years past:
“Lord, Keep My Memory Green.”
Dombey and Son ends on a sentimental note (the style being similar to the passage describing Paul Dombey’s death). Thackery, who was so impressed with this, would no doubt have admired the ending of the book also. It is sentimental, but unerring.
There is something strangely moving in the simple words that conclude David Copperfield (considered by many to be Dickens’ greatest work):
“… so may I, when realities are melting from me like the shadows which I now dismiss, still find thee near me, pointing upward!”
There is something of Prospero about this, something of the fine magic of the literary wizard who was his creator. Dickens could seldom speak in the voice of Shakespeare, though he was the heir to his amazing powers of thought.
Bleak House ends upon a merry, well-contented note. It has the novelty – no doubt intended – of being an incomplete sentence, ending in mid air.
The end of Hard Times is grim and utilitarian, like the book itself. There is a sort of cold indignation about the work that tends to differentiate it from the rest. Very different is Little Dorrit, the novel of the Borough, rich in melodrama, romance, and mystery. There is a mellow happiness in the closing scene, where Clenname and Little Dorrit leave St. George’s church after their wedding:
“They went quietly down into the roaring streets, inseparable and blessed; and as they passed along in sunshine and in shade, the noisy and the eager, and the arrogant and the froward and the vain, fretted, and chafed, and made their usual uproar.”
Great Expectations ends on a similar romantic note, with Pip prevailing on Estella to change her professed friendship for something closer.
“… the evening mists were rising now, and in all the broad expanse of tranquil light they showed to me, I saw no shadow of another parting from her.”
In this romantic conclusion we have yet another example of a changed ending. It was to have been a tragic story, in which Pip and Estella went their different ways. However, while the story was still in progress, Dickens was persuaded by Bulwor-Lytton to abandon this idea and to conclude with a final reconciliation. Lytton was probably wise in advising thus, as a story that ended inconclusively would have puzzled or annoyed the average novel reader of that generation.
Yet this was not the only change that had to be made. The last paragraph of the story – as first printed – was so faulty as to border on the absurd.
Several critics have taken umbrage at Dickens’ grammar – on the whole unjustly, as his naturally ebullient literary style has the same elaborate resourcefulness as that of Sir Walter Scott. At the same time we must admit that Dickens occasionally committed a grammatical howler, much as the one we propose to discuss.
In accordance with Lytton’s suggestion, Dickens decided to end in such a manner as to allow the reader to pre-suppose a happy ending if he would. Accordingly, he ended with the sentence “I saw the shadow of no parting from her.” This invited criticism. A reader promptly wrote to know what was meant. “Did they?” he asked, “or didn’t they?” Dickens recognizing his mistake, recast the sentence in its present form: “I saw no shadow of another parting from her.”
I have dwelt on this incident because – as in the case of A Dinner at Poplar Walk – it is interesting and revealing. It seems to indicate a complex in Dickens; a sense of misgiving, seldom exhibited, but always there. It afflicted him in his choice of titles, also; led him to produce numerous alternatives, canvass his friends as to their respective merits, and to spend some time in a fever of anxiety lest he had chosen wrong. He seems to have felt the same uneasiness over his closing paragraphs: had he chosen the mot juste; had he employed exactly the right mood of expression?
This sense of final misgiving was apparent, as we have seen, in his first piece of fiction, and we find it again in one of his last works, Great Expectations.
Such things are the freaks of a headlong career; fallibilities that serve to humanise the character of Dickens. He wrought terrifically, but sometimes felt a sense of unease when the toil was over.
Edwin Drood, his last, unfinished novel, suspended on a quiet but triumphantly expectant note:
“Mrs. Tope’s care has spread a very neat, clean breakfast ready for her lodger. Before sitting down to it, he opens his corner-cupboard door; takes his bit of chalk from its shelf; adds one thick line to the score, extending from the top of the cupboard door to the bottom; and then falls to with an appetite.”
Behind these few lines, with their strange notes of fulfillment, lies how much unsolved mystery, how much speculation? These were probably the last words Dickens wrote, and as such have an importance above and beyond their ordinary worth.
We pass on to the last words of all, “that end this strange, eventful history.” At dinner that night Dickens complained of feeling unwell; began to speak incoherently. His sister-in-law urged him to lie down. “On the ground,” he muttered, and slid to the floor.
These were the last words he uttered, and though he was fast losing consciousness they are pregnant with import. They seem to suggest that in accepting the common obligation of death, Dickens’ spirit, after innumerable flights of fancy, had come to earth at last. Charles Dickens died on June 9, 1870, but his works remain a part of the nation’s life and the world’s literature.
* * * *
Mr. Williams sent us four fine manuscripts for our selection; one concerned the Prophecies of Dickens, and the failure to mention in this article the final words of Our Mutual Friend may be because they prophecy with finality:
“I can never be much nearer parting company with my readers for ever, than I was then, until there shall be written against my life, the two words with which I have this day closed this book:
THE END.”
Experimenting With Lanternes
by Monica Boyce
Greenville, S.C. 29601
My desire for glory died, when I had done.
Now, I wish to give for posterity’s sake.
The first one-sentence poem shaped like a Japanese lanterne, seemed to need the second; so why not write two lanternes, as one poem. Thus:
My
desire
for glory
died, when I had
done.
Now,
I wish
to give for
posterity’s
sake.
The Japanese professor said the haiku, as American, is what the poets make it. So, why not let the poets make Lanternes? In Judging Gloria Martin’s contest entries, the question was asked of me about writing two Lanternes. With apologies to Gloria, dare I start a new trend in freedom! Double Lanternes, perhaps?
A Letter From Steven
by Steven P. Eichel
Knoxville, Tennessee 37920
Dear Grandpa: (Grandpa being John M. Friedman)
Ellen is feeling a lot better. I hope you and Grandma are well and having fun. Today daddy and I went out to play tennis. The sky was very dark. We got onto the court and started to play. Two minutes later it began to pour.
In Sunday school I was in a play. The play told the story of Purim. I had three parts in it: a choir member, servant, and a fat, fat lady. My costume was made of a dress, kerchief, slippers, and a pillow.
I can tell you a brief summary of what Purim is.
Having banished Queen Vashti, King Achashvaros chooses Esther from among the fairest maidens of Shushan to be his new Queen. Esther’s cousin Mordecai overhears the King’s servants plot to kill Achashvaros. Esther alerts the King, the men are punished, and the incident is duly noted in the Scrolls of Records.
Haman, an evil Prime Minister, annoyed at Mordecai’s refusal to bow in his presence, soon gets the King to order all Jews in the Kingdom to be destroyed. Adar 13 would be the date. That night King Achashvaros couldn’t sleep. He asked someone to read to him from the Book of Records and learned how Mordecai had saved his life. He asks Haman how to do great honor unto someone. Annoyed again (because he had thought the King meant him), Haman honors Mordecai who is garbed in regal robes. Esther throws a party. “Save my people,” she says. Haman wants them to perish. Mordecai is raised to the position of King’s councillor, and Haman is raised to the gallows. Haman’s plot was spoiled. Then the messengers go out to announce the good news, and sorrow is turned to joy. So Adar 14 (a Hebrew month) becomes a day of joy.
Tomorrow there will be a Purim carnival. Each Sunday school class will have a booth set up. Our class is having car races with each car labeled with a different name having to do with Purim.
I am looking forward to seeing you in June. We will have a lot of fun playing tennis.
Love,
Steven.
The Showcase
Being a presentation of the talents and members of the United Amateur Press (UAPA/A)
Edited by Willametta Keffer, Roanoke, Virginia 24014
Presenting: Monica Boyce, Steven Paul Eichel, Winifred Van Sickle, and Philip G. Williams (of BAPA)