A Visit to Bleak House
Bleak House, the scene of the novel of that name, is near the village of St. Albans, about twenty miles from London, and is described in the early part of the story as an “old-fashioned house with three peaks in the roof in front and a circular sweep leading to the porch.” That there was more than one Bleak House in the mind of Dickens “there can be no possible probable manner of doubt,” as Gilbert sings in “The Gondoliers,” because at the close of the story one of the characters in it is made to say, “Both houses are your home, my dear, but the older Bleak House claims priority.”
But the “Bleak House” which was for many years the home of Charles Dickens, and where he wrote many of his novels, was so named by the author after his famous story. It is located in the old-fashioned village of Broadstairs, on the North Sea, in the county of Kent, the garden of England, and is seventy-two miles from London, on the London, Chatham and Dover Railway. The population is given in the latest census as two thousand two hundred and sixty-three.
The house was formerly called Fort House, from its proximity to the British fortifications on the coast. It stands directly on the top of the chalk cliffs, seventy-five feet above the water, quite alone, and so near to the edge that from the portico a stone might be easily thrown into the surf—what little surf there is. It commands a wide view of the ocean. In the southwest it looks toward Ramsgate, a seaside pleasure resort, distant five miles; in the northeast toward Kingsgate. The house is appropriately named, for it is indeed bleak from Christmas until April, when the cold, biting northeast winds, for which these parts are noted, blow with all their might.
It was natural for Dickens to select such a spot for a residence. If he was not actually fond of the sea, he certainly had a great liking for the sea-coast, with which were associated the earliest memories of his childhood. It will be remembered that he was born at Portsmouth, a fortified seaport town, and the principal naval station of Great Britain, about one hundred miles southwest of London. Dickens lived at Portsmouth until he arrived at his majority. At Portsmouth he studied law, but he found Blackstone and Coke rather dry reading, and so went to London where, as every body knows, he entered upon his literary career by reporting parliamentary debates for the Morning Chronicle.
Bleak House is a plain, substantial, compact, three-story structure of burnt brick. It has grounds of one and a quarter acres in extent, and the property is what is called in England “freehold;” value, two thousand seven hundred pounds sterling. A stone wall five feet high, encloses the house on two sides. One side of the house is a flat, blank wall, evidently planned so that an extension could be easily made, and the lower part of the front is protected by plain iron railings. The entrance is by a low flight of five steps leading up to a portico and doorway supported by Doric columns. Next the doorway, on the first story, a semi-circular bay window projects, and on the second story are two deep windows which open upon a pretty ornamental iron balcony, having a curved, sloping roof. A great deal of ivy softens the bareness of the architecture. It climbs up the walls and around the bay windows.
Dickens was very partial to the ivy plant, as his lyric, “The Ivy Green,” testifies. He wrote several lyrics, but “The Ivy Green” which appeared originally in “Pickwick Papers” is the only one that has become familiar. It was first published as a song in the United States, and when a London publisher wished to reproduce it in England, Dickens refused the privilege except on the condition that the publisher pay ten guineas to the composer, Henry Russell.
Dickens was more thoughtful concerning Henry Russell’s rights than this English composer is of the rights of others. I well remember that my predecessor on the Home Journal, the much beloved poet, George P. Morris, had a grudge against Russell, because Russell, in England, claimed to be the author of the words, “Woodman, Spare that Tree,” as well as the composer of the music; and it is my humble opinion that the music in merit is far below Morris’s poetry. The sentiment is beautiful, the words breathe a true, manly spirit and are full of deep feeling, while the music is plaintive, weak, childish—namby-pamby expresses it.
Russell did better with the English poet Mackay’s song, “Cheer, Boys, Cheer,” making it go with life and spirit, and he set appropriate music to our own Epes Sargent’s song, “A Life on the Ocean Wave,” in which you may fancy you almost see the good old sailing ship bowling along before the wind. Henry Russell, who, by the way, is a father of Clark Russell, the novelist, is still living in London—February, 1892.
As to the melody, “The Ivy Green,” an astute critic says: “It seems to me the composer has failed to catch the poet’s meaning. Dickens’s words are as sombre and tender as the vine that deepens the shadows and softens the ruggedness of decaying grandeur; while Russell’s music is as free and sturdy as the hardiest oak.” The song opens with this stanza:
A dainty plant is the ivy green
That creepeth o’er ruins old,
Of rich choice food are his meals, I ween,
In his cell so lone and cold;
The wall must be crumbled, the stones decayed,
To pleasure his dainty whim,
And the mould’ring dust that years have made,
Is a merry meal for him.
Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the ivy green.
The house is about fifty years old, and contains ten rooms. Dickens’s study was on the second floor, front. It has a southeastern outlook; he was fond of the rising sun. The furniture and appointments of the room, which the writer saw in the autumn of 1891, remain as when Dickens left them—table with telescope, bookcase, plain wooden armchair, etc.—a very simply furnished study. He did not die at Bleak House, however, but at a short distance from it, on June 9, 1870, at Gads’ Hill, “Higham by Rochester, Kent,” as he was in the habit of dating from.
Dickens, at Bleak House, was a tenant of a Mr. Fosbury, but the house was sold after Dickens’s death, and is at present owned in Broadstairs by “W. S. Blackburn, house and estate agent, undertaker, builder and decorator, and upholsterer and mover of furniture,” by which man-of-many-trades the house was leased for a very short term to a Mrs. Whitehead, sister of the vicar of St. Peter’s of Broadstairs, at an annual rent of six hundred dollars. Mr. Blackburn now offers the property for sale. It would make a cool and charming summer retreat for some American prince. Or let some large-hearted and large-pursed man like George W. Childs buy the precious property and present it to the village of Broadstairs.