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16https://www.dickenssearch.com/items/show/16'A Child's Hymn'Published in <em>Household Words </em>vol. XIV (6 December 1856).Charles, Dickens<em>Household Words </em>Volume XIV (6 December 1856): p. 21.; <em>Dickens Journals Online</em>, <a href="https://www.djo.org.uk/household-words/volume-xiv/page-593.html" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://www.djo.org.uk/household-words/volume-xiv/page-593.html</a>.<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1856-12-06">1856-12-06</a><span>Scanned material from <em>Dickens Journals Online</em>, </span><a href="http://www.djo.org.uk" id="LPNoLPOWALinkPreview" contenteditable="false" title="http://www.djo.org.uk">www.djo.org.uk</a>. A<span>vailable under CC BY licence.</span><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Poem">Poem</a>1856-12-06_Household_Words_A_Childs_HymnDickens, Charles. 'A Child's Hymn' from <em>The Wreck of the Golden Mary</em> (6 December 1856), <em>Household Words</em>, Volume XIV, p. 21. <em>Dickens Search.</em> Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1856-12-06_Household_Words_A_Childs_Hymn">https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1856-12-06_Household_Words_A_Childs_Hymn</a>.<a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1856-12-06_Household_Words_A_Childs_Hymn.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'A Child's Hymn.' <em>Household Words </em>vol. XIV (6 December 1856): p. 593.</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Periodical">Periodical</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=93&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=%3Cem%3EHousehold+Words%3C%2Fem%3E"><em>Household Words</em></a>Hear my prayer, O! Heavenly Father, Ere I lay me down to sleep; Bid thy Angels, pure and holy, Round my bed their vigil keep. My sins are heavy, but Thy mercy Far outweighs them every one; Down before Thy Cross I cast them, Trusting in Thy help alone. Keep me through this night of peril Underneath its boundless shade; Take me to Thy rest, I pray Thee, When my pilgrimage is made. None shall measure out Thy patience By the span of human thought; None shall bound the tender mercies Which Thy Holy Son has bought. Pardon all my past transgressions, Give me strength for days to come; Guide and guard me with Thy blessing Till Thy Angels bid me home.18561206https://www.dickenssearch.com/files/original/3/A_Child_s_Hymn/1856-12-06_Household_Words_A_Childs_Hymn.pdf
18https://www.dickenssearch.com/items/show/18'A Christmas Carol'From <em>The Pickwick Papers, </em>ch. 28, no. 10 (December 1836).Dickens, Charles<em>The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club, </em>Chapter 28.&nbsp;Number 10 (December 1836), pp. 297-298. <em>UVic Libraries, </em><a href="https://vault.library.uvic.ca/concern/generic_works/003c9690-060f-4e1a-bc46-712154b6a510?">https://vault.library.uvic.ca/concern/generic_works/003c9690-060f-4e1a-bc46-712154b6a510?</a>.Chapman and Hall<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1836-12">1836-12</a><p class="p1"><i>UVic Libraries, </i>Creative Commons Attribution NonCommercial, <span class="s1"><a href="https://creativecommons.org/lice%20nses/by-nc/4.0/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://creativecommons.org/lice nses/by-nc/4.0/</a><span class="Apple-converted-space">.</span></span></p><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Poem">Poem</a>1836-12_Pickwick_Papers_A_Christmas_Carol<p class="p1">Dickens, Charles. 'A Christmas Carol' from <i>The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club. </i>Issue 10, Chapter 28 (December 1836): pp. 297-298. <i>Dickens Search. </i>Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1836-12_Pickwick_Papers_A_Christmas_Carol">https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1836-12_Pickwick_Papers_A_Christmas_Carol</a>.</p><a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1836-12_Pickwick_Papers_A_Christmas_Carol.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'A Christmas Carol.' <em>The Pickwick Papers</em>. Issue 10, ch. 28 (December 1836): p. 298.</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Serial">Serial</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=93&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=%3Cem%3EThe+Pickwick+Papers%3C%2Fem%3E"><em>The Pickwick Papers</em></a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=95&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=BOZ">BOZ</a>I care not for Spring; on his fickle wing, Let the blossoms and buds be borne: He wooes them amain with his treacherous rain, And he scatters them ere the morn. An inconstant elf, he knows not himself, Nor his own changing mind an hour, He’ll smile in your face, and, with wry grimace, He’ll wither your youngest flower. Let the Summer sun to his bright home run, He shall never be sought by me; When he’s dimmed by a cloud I can laugh aloud, And care not how sulky he be! For his darling child is the madness wild That sports in fierce fever’s train; And when love is too strong, it don’t last long, As many have found to their pain. A mild harvest night, by the tranquil light Of the modest and gentle moon, Has a far sweeter sheen, for me, I ween, Than the broad and unblushing noon. But every leaf awakens my grief, As it lieth beneath the tree; So let Autumn air be never so far, It by no means agrees with me. But my song I troll out, for CHRISTMAS stout, The heart, the true, and the bold; A bumper I drain, and with might and main Give three cheers for this Christmas old! We’ll usher him in with a merry din That shall gladden his joyous heart, And we’ll keep him up, while there’s bite or sup, And in fellowship good, we’ll part. In his fine honest pride, he scorns to hide One jot of his hard-weather scars; They’re no disgrace, for there’s much the same trace On the cheeks of our bravest tars. Then again I sing till the roof doth ring, And it echoes from wall to wall – To the stout old wight, fair welcome to-night, As the King of the Seasons all!18361201https://www.dickenssearch.com/files/original/3/A_Christmas_Carol/1836-12_Pickwick_Papers_A_Christmas_Carol.pdf
6https://www.dickenssearch.com/items/show/6'A Word in Season'Published in <em>The Keepsake</em> (1844).Dickens, Charles<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1844">1844</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Poem">Poem</a>1844_The_Keepsake_A_Word_In_SeasonDickens, Charles. 'A Word in Season.' <em>The Keepsake</em> (1844). <em>Dickens Search.</em> Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1844_The_Keepsake_A_Word_In_Season">https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1844_The_Keepsake_A_Word_In_Season</a>.<a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1844_The_Keepsake_A_Word_In_Season.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'A Word in Season.'&nbsp;<em>The Keepsake&nbsp;</em>(1844).</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Periodical">Periodical</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=93&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=%3Cem%3EThe+Keepsake%3C%2Fem%3E"><em>The Keepsake</em></a>They have a superstition in the East, That ALLAH, written on a piece of paper, Is better unction than can come of priest, Of rolling incense, and of lighted taper; Holding, that any scrap which bears that name, In any characters, its front imprest on, Shall help the finder through the purging flame, And give his toasted feet a place to rest on. Accordingly, they make a mighty fuss, With ev’ry wretched tract and fierce oration, And hoard the leaves – for they are not, like us, A highly civilized and thinking nation: And, always stooping in the miry ways, To look for matter of this earthy leaven, They seldom, in their dust-exploring days, Have any leisure to look up to Heaven. So have I known a country on the earth, Where darkness sat upon the living waters, And brutal ignorance, and toil, and dearth Were the hard portion of its sons and daughters: And yet, where they who should have ope’d the door Of charity and light, for all men’s finding, Squabbled for words upon the altar-floor, And rent the Book, in struggles for the binding. The gentlest man among these pious Turks, God’s living image ruthlessly defaces; Their best high-churchman, with no faith in works, Bowstrings the Virtues in the market-places: The Christian Pariah, whom both sects curse (They curse all other men, and curse each other), Walks thro’ the world, not very much the worse – Does all the good he can, and loves his brother.18440101https://www.dickenssearch.com/files/original/3/A_Word_in_Season/1844_A_Word_in_Season.pdf
69https://www.dickenssearch.com/items/show/69'Acrostic'From the autograph album of Maria Beadnell (1830-1831).Dickens, CharlesThe Charles Dickens Museum, <a href="http://www.collections.dickensmuseum.com/object-b319--1971-1-105" target="_blank" rel="noopener">http://www.collections.dickensmuseum.com/object-b319--1971-1-105</a>.; Autograph Album of Maria Beadnell.<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1830">1830</a>; <a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1831">1831</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Poem">Poem</a>1830-31_Autograph_Album_of_Maria_Beadnell_AcrosticDickens, Charles. 'Acrostic.' Autograph Album of Maria Beadnell (1830-31).&nbsp;<em>Dickens Search.</em>&nbsp;Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date].&nbsp;<a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1830-31_Autograph_Album_of_Maria_Beadnell_Acrostic">https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1830-31_Autograph_Album_of_Maria_Beadnell_Acrostic</a>.<a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1830-31_Autograph_Album_of_Maria_Beadnell_Acrostic.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'Acrostic.' From the autograph album of Maria Beadnell (1830-1831).</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Autograph+Album">Autograph Album</a>My life may chequered be with scenes of misery and pain, And’t may be my fate to struggle with adversity in vain: Regardless of misfortunes tho’ howe’er bitter they may be, I shall always have one retrospect, a hallowed one to me, And it will be of that happy time when first I gazed on thee. Blighted hopes, and prospects drear, for me will lose their sting, Endless troubles shall harm not me, when fancy on the wing A lapse of years shall travel o’er, and again before me cast Dreams of happy fleeting moments then for ever past: Not any worldly pleasure has such magic charms for me E’en now, as those short moments spent in company with thee; Life has no charms, no happiness, no pleasures, now for me Like those I feel, when ’tis my lot Maria, to gaze on thee.18300101https://www.dickenssearch.com/files/original/3/Acrostic/1830-31_Autograph_Album_of_Maria_Beadnell_Acrostic.pdf
176https://www.dickenssearch.com/items/show/176'Bob Tarter's Parody'Published in 'The Schoolboy's Story,' <em>Household Words,</em> Vol. VIII, no. 196, New Year Number, 18 February 1854, pp. 409-13.Dickens, Charles<em>Dickens Journals Online,</em> <a href="https://www.djo.org.uk/household-words/volume-viii/page-610.html">https://www.djo.org.uk/household-words/volume-viii/page-610.html</a>.<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1854-02-18">1854-02-18</a><span>Scanned material from <em>Dickens Journals Online</em>, </span><a href="http://www.djo.org.uk" id="LPNoLPOWALinkPreview" contenteditable="false" title="http://www.djo.org.uk">www.djo.org.uk</a>. A<span>vailable under CC BY licence.</span><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Poem">Poem</a>1854-02-18-Bob-Tarters-ParodyDickens, Charles. 'Bob Tarter's Parody' (18 February 1854). <em>Dickens Search.</em> Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://www.dickenssearch.com/verse/1854-02-18-Bob-Tarters-Parody">https://www.dickenssearch.com/verse/1854-02-18-Bob-Tarters-Parody</a>.<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Periodical">Periodical</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=93&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=%3Cem%3EHousehold+Words%3C%2Fem%3E"><em>Household Words</em></a>Who made believe to be so meek That we could hardly hear him speak, Yet turned out an Informing Sneak? Old Cheeseman.18540218https://www.dickenssearch.com/files/original/3/Bob_Tarter_s_Parody/1854-2-18-Bob_Tarters_Parody.pdf
107https://www.dickenssearch.com/items/show/107'Charade'To Henry Riley Bradbury, from the Bradbury album, a scrapbook of letters, sketches, drawings, prints, photographs, and printed ephemera (3 June 1847).Dickens, Charles<span>'Appendix: Charade sent to Henry Riley Bradbury.' 3 June 1847.&nbsp;</span><em>The Letters of Charles Dickens. The</em><span>&nbsp;</span><em>Pilgrim Edition.<span>&nbsp;</span></em><span>Edited by Graham Storey and K. J. Fielding. Volume 5 (1847-1849), p.691. Oxford University Press, 1980.</span>; Bradbury Album, <a href="https://www.themorgan.org/literary-historical/283347" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://www.themorgan.org/literary-historical/283347</a>.<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1847-06-03">1847-06-03</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Poem">Poem</a>; <a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Riddle">Riddle</a>1847-06-03-Bradbury-Album-CharadeDickens, Charles. 'Charade.' Bradbury Album (3 June 1847). <em>Dickens Search</em>. Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1847-06-03-Bradbury-Album-Charade">https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1847-06-03-Bradbury-Album-Charade</a>.<a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1847-06-03-Bradbury-Album-Charade.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'Charade.' Bradbury Album (3 June 1847).</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Album">Album</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=93&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Bradbury+Album">Bradbury Album</a>A species of Nail, but headless and small, Cant word for the Coin which low people call “A farden”, “a copper”, and sweepers entreat You to favor Poor Jack with, in crossing the street,–Is my First. With its first letter chang’d, it’s a horse Change its last, it’s a spoilt child–and crying, of course. It’s a Sunday in London. Many there be Who do my sad Second, so dreary to see; Who wind through the streets, in dark, slow-pacing trains, Or ride behind horses with long-flowing manes; And heap up top-boots, cloaks and feathers, and bands, To swell the great riddle no man understands. In Naples, when they do my Second, Glowing colors, brightest reckon’d, Velvets, ribbons, flowers, and smoke, Make of the fête a ghastly joke.–Or stay–here’s a Miser, lean, trembling, and old, And he does my Second, poor wretch! With his gold. My whole is of Two Genders–man, and wife–It has, it has not, and it will have, life; Is born, is not, is living, and has died, In Marriage may be given–to the Bride; Is short, is tall, is smooth, is rough, of face; And, though not ridden, is a kind of Race.18470603
123https://www.dickenssearch.com/items/show/123'Elegy'From a letter to Mary Boyle (3 December 1849).Dickens, Charles'Elegy.' <em>The Letters of Charles Dickens. The Pilgrim Edition. </em><span>Edited by Graham Storey and K. J. Fielding. Volume 5 (1847-1849), p. 708-709. Oxford University Press, 1980.</span><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1849-12-03">1849-12-03</a>Parody of Thomas Gray&#039;s &#039;Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard&#039;.<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Poem">Poem</a>1849-12-03_Letter_To_Mary_Boyle_Elegy<span>Dickens, Charles. 'Elegy' (3 December 1849). </span><em>Dickens Search.</em><span>&nbsp;Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date].&nbsp;</span><a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1849-12-03_Letter_To_Mary_Boyle_Elegy" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1849-12-03_Letter_To_Mary_Boyle_Elegy</a>.<a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1849-12-03_Letter_To_Mary_Boyle_Elegy.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener"><span>'Elegy' (3 December 1849).</span></a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Letter">Letter</a>Written in a country churchyard. The small dog Spitz has given a shrill bark, And gone off with her tail uprais’d in air; I don’t know where she’s gone, it is so dark, And (what is more) I don’t think that I care. Now the gloom deepens like to that thick gloom Of which the Master of the School once spoke, Which can’t be swept away by any broom, And hangs enshrouding all things, like dense smoke. Within yon Castle Walls, of old admired, Where winking tapers in the windows doze, Each to a chamber snug and warm retir’d, Toe royst’ring wights of Rockingham repose! From them no more does Lady Teazle win Applause, fit tribute to her graces quaint: For them no more Sir Peter daubs his skin And looks out from a mist of flour and paint. The modest check and mien of “the young man”, The lunatic in custody next door, The mirth which Mrs Nickleby began, No longer interrupt their low-drawn snore. No more the host, as if he dealt at cards, Smiling deals lighted candles all about: No more the Fair inclusive of the Bard’s) Persist in blowing all the candles out. No more the Fair prolong the cheerful tread Of dancing feet until the lights low burn: No more the host, when they are gone to bed, Quickly retreats, foreboding their return. Let not Convention mock the cap and bells Which certain heads are not too wise to wear, Nor loftily disdain the voice that tells How harmless trifling purifies the air! Full many an impulse, generous and good, Has sprung from a light heart in cheery hours: Full many a wounded creature has withstood The thorns of life, rememb’ring its wild flowers. And so, may conjurors within that hall Again large watches cut, from loaves of bread: Again hot puddings bring, with magic call, From the hat sacred to a rev’rend head! For him who, mindful of that honored time, Does in these lines its artless tale relate, So read his fate in very feeble rhyme Written in chalk upon the churchyard Gate! The Epitaph Here rests his head upon his native soil A Youth who lived once, in the public whim: His death occasion’d by a mortal Boil, Which settled on his brain, and settled him.18491203
131https://www.dickenssearch.com/items/show/131'Hidden Light'Published in <em>Household Words</em> vol. X (26 August 1854), co-author Adelaide Anne Procter.Dickens, Charles; Procter, Adelaide Anne<div class="element-text"><em>Household Words<span>&nbsp;</span></em>Volume X (26 August 1854): p. 37.</div>; <em>Dickens Journals Online</em>, <a href="https://www.djo.org.uk/indexes/articles/hidden-light.html" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://www.djo.org.uk/indexes/articles/hidden-light.html</a>.<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1854-08-26">1854-08-26</a><span>Scanned material from <em>Dickens Journals Online</em>, </span><a href="http://www.djo.org.uk" id="LPNoLPOWALinkPreview" contenteditable="false" title="http://www.djo.org.uk">www.djo.org.uk</a>. A<span>vailable under CC BY licence.</span><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Poem">Poem</a>1854-08-26-Household_Words_Hidden_Light<span>Dickens, Charles and Adelaide Anne Procter. 'Hidden Light.' </span><em>Household Words</em><span>, Volume X, p. 37.&nbsp;</span><em>Dickens Search.</em><span>&nbsp;Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date].&nbsp;</span><a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1854-08-26_Household_Words_Hidden_Light">https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1854-08-26_Household_Words_Hidden_Light</a>.<a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1854-08-26_Household_Words_Hidden_Light.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'Hidden Light.' <em>Household Words </em>vol. X (26 August 1854): p. 37.</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Periodical">Periodical</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=93&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=%3Cem%3EHousehold+Words%3C%2Fem%3E"><em>Household Words</em></a>I MUCH mistrust the voice That says all hearts are cold: That mere self-interest reigns, And all is bought and bold. I much mistrust the man Who will not strive to find Some latent virtue in The soul of all mankind. Yes! If you say the fount Is seal&#039;d and dry, I know It needs a wiser hand To make the waters flow. If you will still appeal To Evil rife in all, I know a demon band Will answer to your call. But when the Lord was gone, The Lord who came to save, Two Angels fair and bright Sat watching by the grave. And from that blessed hour, With an immortal mien, In every tomb of Good Some Angel sits unseen. The spell to bring it forth? With lowly gentle mind, With patient love and trust, Go seek – and ye shall find!18540826https://www.dickenssearch.com/files/original/3/Hidden_Light/1854-08-26_Household_Words_Hidden_Light.pdf
217https://www.dickenssearch.com/items/show/217'Lady Bowley's Song for the Villagers'Published in <em>The Chimes: A Goblin Story of Some Bells that Rang an Old Year Out and a New Year In</em> (Chapman and Hall, 1844), p. 63.Dickens, Charles<em>Hathi Trust,</em> <a href="https://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/002606872">https://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/002606872</a>.<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1844-12">1844-12</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Poem">Poem</a>1844-12-Lady_Bowleys_Song_for_the_VillagersDickens, Charles. 'Lady Bowley's Song for the Villagers' (December 1844).&nbsp;<em>Dickens Search.</em>&nbsp;Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig.&nbsp;<a href="https://www.dickenssearch.com/verse/1844-12-Lady_Bowleys_Song_for_the_Villagers">https://www.dickenssearch.com/verse/1844-12-Lady_Bowleys_Song_for_the_Villagers</a>.Oh let us love our occupations, Bless the squire and his relations, Live upon our daily rations, And always know our proper stations.18441201https://www.dickenssearch.com/files/original/3/Lady_Bowley_s_Song_for_the_Villagers/1844-12-Lady_Bowleys_Song_for_the_Villagers.pdf
72https://www.dickenssearch.com/items/show/72'Lodgings To Let'From the autograph album of Maria Beadnell (c. 1831).Dickens, CharlesThe Charles Dickens Museum, <a href="http://www.collections.dickensmuseum.com/object-b319--1971-1-105" target="_blank" rel="noopener">http://www.collections.dickensmuseum.com/object-b319--1971-1-105</a>.; Autograph Album of Maria Beadnell.<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1831">1831</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Poem">Poem</a>1831_Autograph_Album_of_Maria_Beadnell_Lodgings_To_Let<span>Dickens, Charles. 'Lodgings To Let.' Autograph Album of Maria Beadnell (1831). </span><em>Dickens Search.</em><span>&nbsp;Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date].&nbsp;</span><a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1831_Autograph_Album_of_Maria_Beadnell_Lodgings_To_Let">https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1831_Autograph_Album_of_Maria_Beadnell_Lodgings_To_Let</a><span>.</span><a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1831_Autograph_Album_of_Maria_Beadnell_Lodgings_To_Let.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener"><span>'Lodgings To Let.' Autograph Album of Maria Beadnell (1831).</span></a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Autograph+Album">Autograph Album</a>Lodgings here! A charming place, The Owner’s such a lovely face The Neighbours too seem very pretty Lively, sprightly, gay, and witty Of all the spots that I could find This is the place to suit my mind. Then I will say sans hesitation This place shall be my habitation This charming spot my home shall be While dear “Maria” keeps the key, I’ll settle here, no more I’ll roam But make this place my happy home. A great advantage too will be, I shall keep such good company, So good that I fear my composing Will be considered very prosing Still I’m most proud amongst these pickings To rank the humblest name. – Charles Dickens.18310101
10https://www.dickenssearch.com/items/show/10'Now if I don't make the completest mistake'From the autograph album of Mrs. S. C. Hall (after 1836).Dickens, Charles<em>Autograph Album of Mrs. S. C. Hall</em>.<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1836%2C+after">1836, after</a>Held at The New York Public Library's Archives &amp; Manuscripts, <a href="http://archives.nypl.org/brg/19176#c218463" target="_blank" rel="noopener">http://archives.nypl.org/brg/19176#c218463</a>. Quoted in Hall, S.C. and Mrs. S.C. Hall. ‘Memories of the Authors of the Age’. Art-Journal, vol.5, 1 January 1866, pp. 21-24; p. 22 and Hotten, John Camden. <a href="https://www.google.com/books/edition/_/uDUz2Uu8KxYC?hl=en&amp;gbpv=1&amp;bsq=completest%20mistake" target="_blank" rel="noopener"><em>Charles Dickens, the Story of his Life</em></a> (John Camden Hotten, 1870), pp. 280-281.<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Poem">Poem</a>1836-after-Now_if_I_dont_make_the_completest_mistakeDickens, Charles. 'Now if I don't make the completest mistake.' For Mrs. S.C. Hall (written after 1836): <em>Dickens Search.</em> Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1836-after-Now_if_I_dont_make_the_completest_mistake">https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1836-after-Now_if_I_dont_make_the_completest_mistake</a>.<a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1836-after-Now_if_I_dont_make_the_completest_mistake.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'Now if I don't make the completest mistake.' Autograph Album of Mrs. S. C. Hall (after 1836).</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Autograph+Album">Autograph Album</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=95&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Boz">Boz</a>Now, if I don&#039;t make The completest mistake That ever put man in a rage, This bird of two weathers Has moulted his feathers, And left them in some other cage.18370101
20https://www.dickenssearch.com/items/show/20'Ode to an Expiring Frog'From <em>The Pickwick Papers </em>issue 6, ch. 15 (August 1836).Dickens, Charles<em>The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club, </em>Chapter 15, Number 6 (August 1836), p.148. <em>UVic Libraries, </em><a href="https://vault.library.uvic.ca/concern/file_sets/070f8b17-ceef-4687-9ce5-e81bb81c1ac3?locale=en" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://vault.library.uvic.ca/concern/file_sets/070f8b17-ceef-4687-9ce5-e81bb81c1ac3?locale=en</a>.Chapman and Hall<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1836-08">1836-08</a><p class="p1"><i>UVic Libraries, </i>Creative Commons Attribution NonCommercial, <a href="https://creativecommons.org/lice%20nses/by-nc/4.0/&nbsp;" target="_blank" rel="noopener"><span class="s1">https://creativecommons.org/lice nses/by-nc/4.0/</span></a>.</p><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Poem">Poem</a>1836-08-Pickwick_Papers_Ode_to_an_Expiring_Frog<p class="p1">Dickens, Charles. 'Ode to an Expiring Frog' from <i>The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club. </i>Issue 6, Chapter 15 (August 1836), p. 148. <i>Dickens Search. </i>Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1836-08-Pickwick_Papers_Ode_to_an_Expiring_Frog">https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1836-08-Pickwick_Papers_Ode_to_an_Expiring_Frog</a>.</p><a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1836-08_Pickwick_Papers_Ode_to_an_Expiring_Frog.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'Ode to an Expiring Frog. <em>The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club.</em> Issue 6, Chapter 15 (August 1836): p. 148.</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Serial">Serial</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=93&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=%3Cem%3EThe+Pickwick+Papers%3C%2Fem%3E"><em>The Pickwick Papers</em></a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=95&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Boz">Boz</a>Can I view thee panting, lying On thy stomach, without sighing? Can I unmoved see thee dying On a log, Expiring frog? Say, have fiends in shape of boys, With wild halloo and brutal noise, Hunted thee from marshy joys, With a dog, Expiring frog?18360801https://www.dickenssearch.com/files/original/3/Ode_to_an_Expiring_Frog/1836-08-Pickwick_Papers_Ode_to_an_Expiring_Frog.pdf
21https://www.dickenssearch.com/items/show/21'Romance'From <em>The Pickwick Papers,</em> Chapter 43, Number 15 (June 1837).Dickens, Charles<p class="p1"><i>The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club. </i>Issue 15, Chapter 43 (June 1837), p. 464. <i>UVic Libraries, </i><a href="https://vault.library.uvic.ca/concern/file_sets/93a0e9d2-e383-4c75-88eb-a6cdb9d29cac?locale=en" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://vault.library.uvic.ca/concern/file_sets/93a0e9d2-e383-4c75-88eb-a6cdb9d29cac?locale=en</a>.</p>Chapman and Hall<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1837-06">1837-06</a><p class="p1"><i>UVic Libraries, </i>Creative Commons Attribution NonCommercial, <span class="s1"><a href="https://creativecommons.org/lice%20nses/by-nc/4.0/&nbsp;" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://creativecommons.org/lice nses/by-nc/4.0/</a><span class="Apple-converted-space">.</span></span></p><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Poem">Poem</a>1837-06-Pickwick_Papers_Romance<p class="p1">Dickens, Charles. 'Romance' from <i>The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club. </i>Chapter 43, Number 15 (June 1837), p. 464. <i>Dickens Search. </i>Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1837-06-Pickwick_Papers_Romance">https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1837-06-Pickwick_Papers_Romance</a>.</p><a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1837-06_Pickwick_Papers_Romance.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'Romance.' <em>The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club</em>. Issue 15, Chapter 43 (June 1837): p. 464.</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Serial">Serial</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=93&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=%3Cem%3EThe+Pickwick+Papers%3C%2Fem%3E"><em>The Pickwick Papers</em></a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=95&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=BOZ">BOZ</a>Bold Turpin vunce, on Hounslow Heath, His bold mare Bess bestrode – er; Ven there he see’d the Bishop’s coach A-comin’ along the road – er.  So he gallops close to the ‘orse’s legs, And he claps his head vithin; And the Bishop says, &quot;Sure as eggs is eggs, This here’s the bold Turpin!” (CHORUS.) And the Bishop says, &quot;Sure as eggs is eggs, This here’s the bold Turpin!&quot; Says Turpin, &quot;You shall eat your words, With a sarse of leaden bul’let;&quot; So he puts a pistol to his mouth, And he fires it down his gul-let. The coachman, he not likin’ the job, Set off at a full gal-lop, But Dick put a couple of balls in his nob, And perwailed on him to stop. (CHORUS sarcastically.) But Dick put a couple of balls in his nob, And perwailed on him to stop.18370601https://www.dickenssearch.com/files/original/3/Romance/1837-06-Pickwick_Papers_Romance.pdf
115https://www.dickenssearch.com/items/show/115'Song – Fanny'From Act 1, Scene 2 of <em>The Strange Gentleman</em> (Lord Chamberlain’s Copy, 1836).Dickens, CharlesLord Chamberlain’s Copy, British Library.; <span>'Song – Fanny.' <em>The Strange</em> <em>Gentleman</em>. </span><em>The Letters of Charles Dickens. The</em><span>&nbsp;</span><em>Pilgrim Edition.<span>&nbsp;</span></em><span>Edited by Madeline House and Graham Storey. Volume 1 (1820-1839), p. 696-697. Oxford University Press, 1965.</span><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1836">1836</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Poem">Poem</a>1836_The_Strange_Gentleman_Song_FannyDickens, Charles. 'Song – Fanny.' <em>The Strange Gentleman</em> (1836). <em>Dickens Search</em>. Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1836_The_Strange_Gentleman_Song_Fanny">https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1836_The_Strange_Gentleman_Song_Fanny</a>.<a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1836_The_Strange_Gentleman_Song_Fanny.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'Song – Fanny.' <em>The Strange Gentleman&nbsp;</em>(Lord Chamberlain’s Copy, 1836).</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Play">Play</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=93&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=The+Strange+Gentleman">The Strange Gentleman</a>Tis Hope that cheers the lover’s breast And lulls the troubled mind to rest – Hope is the sailors leading star The Warriors shield in fiercest War – The youth, the aged to it cling ‘Twill comfort to the wretched bring. Then in my bosom let it dwell For there will ever be a spell In hope, fond hope. 2 The Captive bears the galling chain Nor thinks he call’s on hope in vain The Miser as he views his store Fears to lose, still hopes for more In hope there is a charm divine That all the joys of life combine. Then in my bosom let it dwell For there will ever be a spell In hope, fond hope.18360101
218https://www.dickenssearch.com/items/show/218'Song of the Kettle'Published in <em>The Cricket on the Hearth. A Fairy Tale of Home</em> (Bradbury and Evans, December 1845), p.7.<em>Hathi Trust,</em> <a href="https://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/102287704">https://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/102287704</a>.<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1845-12">1845-12</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Poem">Poem</a>1845-12-Song_of_the_KettleDickens, Charles. 'Song of the Kettle' (1845). <em>Dickens Search.</em> Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://www.dickenssearch.com/verse/1846-12-Song_of_the_Kettle">https://www.dickenssearch.com/verse/1846-12-Song_of_the_Kettle</a>.It’s a dark night, sang the Kettle, and the rotten leaves are lying by the way; and, above, all is mist and darkness, and below, all is mire and clay; and there’s only one relief in all the sad and murky air; and I don’t know that it is one, for it’s nothing but a glare, of deep and angry crimson, where the sun and wind together, set a brand upon the clouds for being guilty of such weather; and the widest open country is a long dull streak of black; and there’s hoar-frost on the finger-post, and thaw upon the track; and the ice it isn’t water, and the water isn’t free; and you couldn’t say that anything is what it ought to be; but he’s coming, coming, coming!—18451201https://www.dickenssearch.com/files/original/3/Song_of_the_Kettle/1845-12-Song_of__the_Kettle.pdf
3https://www.dickenssearch.com/items/show/3'Subjects For Painters'Published in <em>The Examiner</em> (21 August 1841).Dickens, Charles<em>British Library Newspapers</em><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1841-08-21">1841-08-21</a><em>British Library Newspapers,</em> <a href="https://link.gale.com/apps/doc/BB3200992782/BNCN?u=loughuni&amp;sid=BNCN&amp;xid=784a4802" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://link.gale.com/apps/doc/BB3200992782/BNCN?u=loughuni&amp;sid=BNCN&amp;xid=784a4802</a>. Some rights reserved. This work permits non-commercial use, distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the original author and source are credited.<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Poem">Poem</a>1841-08-21_The_Examiner_Subjects_For_PaintersDickens, Charles. 'Subjects For Painters.' <em>The Examiner</em> (21 August 1841): p. 532. <em>Dickens Search.</em> Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1841-08-21_The_Examiner_Subjects_For_Painters">https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1841-08-21_The_Examiner_Subjects_For_Painters</a>.<a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1841-08-21_The_Examiner_Subjects_For_Painters.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'Subjects For Painters.' <em>The Examiner</em> (21 August 1841): p. 532.</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Newspaper">Newspaper</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=93&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=The+Examiner">The Examiner</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=95&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=W.">W.</a>(After Peter Pindar.) To you, SIR MARTIN, and your co. R.A.’s, I dedicate in meek, suggestive lays, Some subjects for your academic palettes; Hoping, by dint of these my scanty jobs, To fill with novel thoughts your teeming nobs, As though I beat them in with wooden mallets. To you, MACLISE, who Eve’s fair daughters paint With Nature’s hand, and want the maudlin taint Of the sweet Chalon school of silk and ermine: To you, E. LANDSEER, who from year to year Delight in beasts and birds, and dogs and deer, And seldom give us any human vermin: – – To all who practice art, or make believe, I offer subjects they may take or leave. Great Sibthorp and his butler, in debate (Arcades ambo) on affairs of state, Not altogether ‘gone,’ but rather funny; Cursing the Whigs for leaving in the lurch Our d–d, good, pleasant, gentlemanly Church, Would make a picture – cheap at any money. Or Sibthorp as the Tory Sec.–at–War, Encouraging his mates with loud ‘Yhor! Yhor!&#039; From Treas’ry benches’ most conspicuous end; As an expectant Premier without guile, Calls him his honourable and gallant friend. Or Sibthorp travelling in foreign parts, Through that rich portion of our Eastern charts Where lies the land of popular tradition; And fairly worshipp’d by the true devout In all his comings in and goings out, Because of the old Turkish superstition. Fame with her trumpet, blowing very hard, And making earth rich with celestial lard, In puffing deeds done through Lord Chamberlain Howe; While some few thousand persons of small gains, Who give their charities without such pains, Look up, much wondering what may be the row. Behind them Joseph Hume, who turns his pate To where great Marlbro’ House in princely state Shelters a host of lacqueys, lords, and pages, And says he knows of dowagers a crowd, Who, without trumpeting so very loud, Would do so much, and more, for half the wages. Limn, sirs, the highest lady in the land, When Joseph Surface, fawning cap in hand, Delivers in his list of patriot mortals; Those gentlemen of honour, faith, and truth, Who, foul-mouthed, spat upon her maiden youth, And dog-like did defile her palace portals. Paint me the Tories, full of grief and woe, Weeping (to voters) over Frost and Co., Their suff’ring, erring, much-enduring brothers. And in the background don’t forget to pack, Each grinning ghastly from its bloody sack, The heads of Thistlewood, Despard, and others. Paint, squandering the club’s election gold, Fierce lovers of our Constitution old, Lords who’re that sacred lady’s greatest debtors; And let the law, forbidding any voice Or act of Peer to influence the choice Of English people, flourish in bright letters. Paint that same dear old lady, ill at ease, Weak in her second childhood, hard to please, Unknowing what she ails or what she wishes; With all her Carlton nephews at the door, Deaf’ning both aunt and nurses with their roar, – Fighting already, for the loaves and fishes. Leaving these hints for you to dwell upon, I shall presume to offer more anon.18410821https://www.dickenssearch.com/files/original/3/Subjects_For_Painters/1841-08-21_Subjects_for_Painters.jpeg
73https://www.dickenssearch.com/items/show/73'The Bill of Fare'MS in Maria Beadnell&#039;s hand (1831).Dickens, CharlesBeinecke Library, Yale University.; Manuscript.<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1831">1831</a>Parody of Oliver Goldsmith's 'Retaliation: A Poem'.<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Poem">Poem</a>1831_The_Bill_of_Fare<span>Dickens, Charles. 'Lodgings To Let.' Autograph Album of Maria Beadnell (1831). </span><em>Dickens Search.</em><span>&nbsp;Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date].&nbsp;</span><a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1831_The_Bill_of_Fare">https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1831_The_Bill_of_Fare</a><span>.</span><a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1831_The_Bill_of_Fare.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener"><span>Dickens, Charles. 'The Bill of Fare.' Manuscript (1831).</span></a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Manuscript">Manuscript</a>As the great rage just now is imitation, &#039;Mong high-born and low, throughout the whole Nation, I trust &#039;twill excuse the few following lines, Of which I&#039;ll say nothing, but that these poor rhymes, As you might expect, in degenerate days Like these, are entitled to no share of praise Because they are novel, – the ground work at least, Is a copy from Goldsmith&#039;s ever famed Feast. &quot;And a bad one it is too,&quot; – you&#039;ll say, I fear, But let me entreat you, don&#039;t be too severe. – If, in a fair face, &#039;twill elicit a smile, If one single moment &#039;twill serve to beguile, – I shall think on it with great satisfaction, Et cet&#039;ra, – and so forth: – now then to action! Without further preface to waste the time in We&#039;ll set to at once, – If you please we&#039;ll begin. We&#039;ll say a small party to Dinner are met, And the guests are themselves about to be eat; Without saying Grace, – (I own I&#039;m a sinner, –) We&#039;ll endeavor to see what we&#039;ve for dinner. Mr. Beadnell&#039;s a good fine sirloin of beef, Though to see him cut up would cause no small grief; And then Mrs. Beadnell, I think I may name, As being an excellent Rib of the same. The Miss B&#039;s are next, who it must be confessed Are two nice little Ducks; and very well dressed. William Moule&#039;s of a trifle, a trifling dish; Mr. Leigh we all know is a very great fish; Mrs. Leigh a Curry, smart, hot and biting, Although a dish that is always inviting. For cooking our meat we utensils won&#039;t lack So Miss Leigh shall be called a fine roasting Jack, A thing of great use, when we dine or we sup, A patent one too – never wants winding up. Mr Moule&#039;s a bottle of excellent Port; Mrs. Moule of Champagne, – good humor&#039;s her forte; The Miss M&#039;s of Snipe are a brace, if you please, And Joe is a very fine flavored Dutch-Cheese; Mrs. Lloyd and her spouse are a nice side dish, – (Some type of their most happy state I must wish To produce; – let me see, I&#039;ve found out one soon) Of Honey and sweets in the form of a Moon; Arthur Beetham, – this dish has cost me some pains, Is a tongue with a well made garnish of brains; M&#039;Namara, I think must by the same rule Be a dish of excellent gooseberry-fool; And Charles Dickens, who in our Feast plays a part, Is a young Summer Cabbage, without any heart; – Not that he&#039;s heartless, but because, as folks say, He lost his a twelve month ago from last May. Now let us suppose that the dinner is done, And the guests have roll&#039;d on the floor one by one: – I don&#039;t mean to say that they&#039;re at the completion, Trying the fam&#039;d city cure for repletion. Nor do I by any means raise up the question Whether they owe their deaths to indigestion. We&#039;ll say they&#039;re all dead; it&#039;s a terrible sight But I&#039;ll dry my tears, and their Epitaphs write. Here lies Mr. Beadnell, beyond contradiction, An excellent man, and a good politician; His opinions were always sound and sincere, Come here! ye Reformers, o&#039;er him drop a tear: Come here, and with me weep at his sudden end, Ye who&#039;re to ballot and freedom a friend. Come here, all of ye who to him ever listened, Praise on rare quality – he was consistent; And if any one can say so much for you We&#039;ll try to write on you an epitaph too. He was most hospitable, friendly and kind; An enemy, I&#039;m sure, he&#039;s not left behind; And if he be fairly, and all in all ta&#039;en, &quot;We never shall look upon his like again.&quot; Here lies Mrs. Beadnell, whose conduct through life, As a mother, a woman, a friend, a wife, I shall think, while I possess recollection, Can be summ&#039;d up in one word – PERFECTION. Her faults I&#039;d tell you beyond any doubt, But for this plain reason, – I ne&#039;er found them out: Her character from my own knowledge I tell, For when she was living she was, I then knew her well. It chances to&#039;ve been by the fates brought about, That she was the means of first bringing me out: – All my thanks for that and her kindness since then I&#039;d vainly endeavor to tell with my pen: I think what I&#039;d say, – I feel it, that&#039;s better, Or I&#039;d scorn to write of these lines one letter. Excuse me, dear reader, for pause now I must; Here two charming Sisters lie low in the dust. – But why should I pause? do they want my poor aid To tell of their virtues while with us they stayed? Can a few words from me add a hundredth part To the regret felt for them in every heart? No, no! &#039;t is impossible; still I must try, To speak of them here, for I can&#039;t pass them by. And first then for Anne I&#039;ll my banner unfurl – A truly delightful and sweet-tempered girl, And, what&#039;s very odd, and will add to her fame, Is this one plain fact, – she was always the same. She was witty, clever, – you liked what she said; Without being blue, she was very well read. Her favourite Author, or else I&#039;m a fibber, And have been deceived, was the famed Colley Cibber. I don&#039;t think dear reader &#039;twill interest you, But still, if you please, keep that quite entre nous. I grow tedious, so of her I&#039;ll not din more, – Oh! – She sometimes drest her hair a la Chinois. Ladies, if you want this fashion to follow, And don&#039;t know where you the pattern can borrow, Don&#039;t look in &quot;the fashions&quot; &#039;mong bows and wreathings, You&#039;ll find it on any antique China Tea things. But who have we here? alas what sight is this? Has her spirit flown back to regions of bliss? Has Maria left this World of trouble and care Because for us she was too good and too fair? Has Heaven in its jealousy ta&#039;en her away As a blessing too great for us children of clay? All ye fair and beautiful, sadly come here, And Springs early flowers strew over her bier; Fit emblems are they of life&#039;s short fleeting day, Fit tributes are they to her mem&#039;ry to pay; For though blooming now, they will soon be decayed, They blossom one moment, then wither and fade. I linger here now, and I hardly know why, I&#039;ve no wish, no hope now, but this one – to die. My bright hopes and fond wishes were all centered here Their brightness has vanished, they&#039;re now dark and drear. The impression that Mem&#039;ry engraves in my heart Is all I have left, and with that I ne&#039;er part. I might tell you much, and I say&#039;t with a sigh, Of the grace of her form, and the glance of her eye; I might tell of happy days now pass&#039;d away, Which I fondly hoped then would never decay, But &#039;twere useless – I should only those times deplore, I know that again I can see them no more. But what&#039;s this small form that she folds to her breast, As if it had only laid down there to rest? Poor thing is it living? – Ah no! it&#039;s dead quite; It is a small dog, liver-colored and white. Dear me, now I see – &#039;tis the little dog that Would eat mutton chops if you cut off the fat! So very happy was its situation An object it was of such admiration, That I&#039;d resign all my natural graces, E&#039;en now, if I could with &quot;Daphne&quot; change places. William Moule next alas with the dead lieth here, And his loss we shall ne&#039;er recover I fear; No more shall the young men, among whom am I, Regard with great envy his elegant tie; No more shall the girls, with anxiety wait, At a party, and mourn that he came in late; Though it was not his fault, it must be confess&#039;d We knew very well that he lived &quot;in the West&quot; The purlieus of Tottenham Court Road!!! And men of great fashion now never go out, Till long after twelve when engaged to a rout. No more shall he waltz an hour with one lady, To the delight of tut&#039;ress, Miss A. B. Who no more shall turn to me, and whispering low, Say &quot;Doesn&#039;t he waltz well? I taught him, you know.&quot; No more shall he curse all the City Folks&#039; Balls, And vow that he never will honor their halls; No more from &quot;the London&quot;, will he be turned back Because of his wearing a Kerchief of black; No more when we sit round the blithe supper table Shall he hush to silence the prattling Babel, By, – When a lady, a speech made upon her – Rising to return us her thanks for the honor. No more – but I think I&#039;ll use that phrase no more, I feel that I can&#039;t this loss enough deplore. Momus and Bacchus, both be merry no more, Your friend Mr. Leigh lies dead on the floor. Weep both of ye, each hide your sorrowful head, For he isn&#039;t dead drunk, but he&#039;s really dead. We shall never again see his good humored face, We shall never again much admire the grace With which he would drink off his bottle of wine, Or with which he&#039;d ask you next Sunday to dine. We shall never again laugh aloud at his fun, We shall never in turn amuse him with a pun. In his Will I hope as a Legacy that He&#039;s left me that elegant, pretty dress hat, The shape, make, and color of which were so rare; And which on all extra occasions he&#039;d wear. I really do his loss most deeply regret, As the kindest best temper&#039;d man, I e&#039;er met. I&#039;m as hale and as hearty as any one here So I&#039;ll help to carry him to his new bier. Mrs. Leigh&#039;s life, alas, has come to an end: – But I can&#039;t speak of her, I fear to offend; I don&#039;t think the truth need her feelings much gall, But if I can&#039;t tell it I won&#039;t write at all. If &#039;twere not for the lesson that I&#039;ve been taught I&#039;d have painted her as in justice I ought; I&#039;d have said she was friendly, good hearted, kind, Her wit I&#039;d have praised and intelligent mind; &#039;Bout scandal, or spreading reports without heed, Of course I&#039;d say nothing, how could I indeed? Because if I did I should certainly lie, And my remarks here, doubtless, would not apply. So as I fear either to praise or to blame, I will not her faults or her virtues here name. And Mary Anne Leigh&#039;s death I much regret too, Though the greatest tormentor that I e&#039;er knew; Whenever she met you, at morn, noon or night To tease and torment you, was her chief delight; To each glance or smile she&#039;d a meaning apply, On every flirtation she kept a sharp eye. Though – tender feelings I trust I&#039;m not hurting – She ne&#039;er herself much objected to flirting. A singular fact. She to each little secret always held the candle, And I think she liked a small bit of scandal. I think, too, that she used to dress her hair well, Although Arthur said, – but that tale I won&#039;t tell. In short though she was so terribly teasing So pretty she looked, her ways were so pleasing, That when she had finished I used to remain Half fearing, half hoping, to be teased again. Here lies – Mr. Moule, at whose plentiful board We often have sat, and where, with one accord, Mirth, pleasure, good humor and capital Wine, Seem&#039;d always to meet when one went there to dine. To his friends he was always good-humored and kind And a much better host &#039;twould be hard to find. If he for an instant his good humor missed I&#039;ve heard it would be at a rubber of whist; At least I&#039;ve sometimes heard his Partners say so; Though of course I myself this fact cannot know. His hospitality deserved great credit; Indeed I much wish all men did inherit That merit from him; I&#039;m sure it is needed, That some should prize it as highly as he did. I think his opinions were not always quite So kind, or so just as they should be of right. However that question I&#039;ll not travel though, &#039;Twould not I think become me so to do. Some others in this point like him we may see, So I will say requiescat in pace. Mrs. Moule alas lieth here with the dead, Her good temper vanish&#039;d, her light spirits fled; I&#039;d say much of her but all knew her too well, To leave any thing new for me here to tell, So I&#039;ll only say, – in thus speaking of her I&#039;m sure all she e&#039;er knew will concur – If kindness and temper as virtues are held She never by any one yet was excelled. Louisa Moule&#039;s next, – I can&#039;t better call her Than the same pattern, – N.B. a size smaller. Here lies Fanny Moule, of whom&#039;t may be said, That romance or sentiment quite turned her head. Her chief pleasure was, but I cannot tell why To sit by herself in a corner and sigh. You might talk for an hour to her thinking she heard, And find out at last she had not heard a word; She&#039;d start turn her head, – the case was a hard one, – And say with a sigh, &quot;Dear! I beg your pardon.&quot; Whether this arose from love, doubt, hesitation, Or whether indeed, &#039;twas all affectation, I will not by my own decision abide, I&#039;ll leave it to others the point to decide; Thus much though, I will say, – I think it is droll, That one who so pleasing might be on the whole, Should take so much trouble, – it must be a toil, – All her charms and graces entirely to spoil. Here lies honest Joe, and I&#039;m sure when I say That he&#039;d a good heart, there&#039;s no one will say nay, The themes, of all others, on which he would doat Were splendid gold lace and a flaming red Coat; His mind always ran on battles and slaughters, Guards, Bands, Kettle-drums and splendid Head Quarters. I&#039;ve heard that the best bate to catch a young girl Is a red coat and a mustachio&#039;s curl; Bait your hook with but this, and Joe would soon bite Hint at it, he&#039;d talk on from morning to night. In portraits of Soldiers he spent all his hoard; You talked of a penknife – he thought of a sword. Inspecting accounts he ne&#039;er could get through His mind would revert to some former review. He ne&#039;er made a bill out, smaller or larger But he thought he was then mounting his charger. He ne&#039;er to the counting house trudged in a heat But he thought of forced marches and a retreat And ne&#039;er from the play to his home went again But trembling he thought of the roll call at TEN. But fallen at last is this &quot;gay young deceiver,&quot; A prey to Death and a bad Scarlet fever. Here lies Mrs. Lloyd, I&#039;m sorry to say That she too from us is so soon snatched away; That her fate is most hard it can&#039;t be denied, When we think how recently she was a bride. That she became one is no source of surprise, For if all that&#039;s charming in critical eyes Is likely to finish a dull single life, I&#039;m sure she ought t’ve been long since a wife Though we lament one so pleasing, so witty, And though her death we may think a great pitty I really myself do quite envy her fate, And I wish when with Death I&#039;ve my tête à tête, He&#039;d do me the favor to take me away When my prospects here were bright, blooming and gay, When I&#039;m quite happy, ere with sorrows jaded, I wish for my grave, when my hopes are faded, – When I might be certain of leaving behind Those who would ne&#039;er cease to bear me in mind She&#039;s gone and who shall now those sweet ballads sing Which still in my ears so delightfully ring? &quot;We met,&quot; &quot;Friends depart&quot; – I those sweet sounds retain, And I feel I shall never forget them again. And down here Mr. Lloyd&#039;s remains lie beside Those of his so recently blooming young bride, I&#039;m sorry he&#039;s dead, for I knew him to be, Good humored, most honest, kind hearted and free. That he was consistent, I ne&#039;er had a doubt, Although scandal said, and &#039;twas whisper&#039;d about, That when he last Summer from Paris came home (I think &#039;twas his marriage induced him to roam) He his principles changed, – so runs the story, Threw off the Whigs, and became a staunch Tory. But be that as it may, I think it&#039;s but fair, To say that I know he enjoyed the fresh air. And is Arthur Beetham for the first time hush&#039;d? And has he returned to his original dust? Has he gone the way of all flesh with the rest In spite of the great care he took of his Chest! The reason assigned by Mr. A. B. for constantly wearing his coat buttoned up to his chin, was his extreme anxiety to preserve his chest from cold. At our snug coteries will he never make one? Will he never again gladden us with his fun? Poor fellow! I fear, now he&#039;s laid in the earth, That of our amusements we&#039;ll all find a dearth; And yet he&#039;d his faults, – to speak without joking, He had a knack of being very provoking; So much so that several times t&#039; other day I devoutly, heartily, wished him away; But after I&#039;d done so, my conscience me smote And here perhaps a couple of lines I may quote Missing his mirth and agreeable vein, I directly wished we had him back again. And does M&#039;Namara with the dead recline? Poor Francis, his waistcoats were wond&#039;rously fine; He certainly was an elegant fellow, His coats were well made, his gloves a bright yellow; Florists shall hold up his Pall by the corners, Morgan a celebrated glove maker and Watkins a celebrated Tailor shall be his chief mourners. Last, here&#039;s Charles Dickens, who&#039;s now gone for ever; It&#039;s clear that he thought himself very clever; To all his friends&#039; faults – it almost makes me weep, He was wide awake – to his own fast asleep. Though blame he deserved for such wilful blindness He had one merit – he ne&#039;er forgot kindness. Perhaps I don&#039;t do right to call that a merit Which each human creature&#039;s bound to inherit; But when old Death claimed the debt that he owed him He felt most grateful to all that was showed him, His faults, and there were not in number few, As all his acquaintance extremely well knew, Emanated – to speak of him in good part – I think rather more from the head than the heart. His death wasn&#039;t sudden, he had long been ill, Slowly he languished and got worse, until, No mortal means could the poor young fellow save, And a sweet pair of eyes sent him home to his grave. Finis18310101
5https://www.dickenssearch.com/items/show/5'The Blacksmith'Published in <em>All The Year Round </em>(30 April 1859).Dickens, Charles<em>Dickens Journals Online, </em><a href="https://www.djo.org.uk/all-the-year-round/volume-i/page-20.html" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://www.djo.org.uk/all-the-year-round/volume-i/page-20.html</a>; attr. Shepherd, <a href="https://www.google.com/books/edition/The_Plays_and_Poems_of_Charles_Dickens/3FPOAAAAMAAJ?hl=en&amp;gbpv=1&amp;dq=shephard+plays+and+poems+the+blacksmith+dickens&amp;pg=PA232&amp;printsec=frontcover" target="_blank" rel="noopener"><em>Plays and Poems</em></a> (1885), p.232.<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1859-04-30">1859-04-30</a><span>Scanned material from <em>Dickens Journals Online</em>, </span><a href="http://www.djo.org.uk" id="LPNoLPOWALinkPreview" contenteditable="false" title="http://www.djo.org.uk">www.djo.org.uk</a>. A<span>vailable under CC BY licence.</span><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Poem">Poem</a>1859-04-30_All_The_Year_Round_The_BlacksmithDickens, Charles. 'The Blacksmith.' <em>All the Year Round</em> (30 April 1859): p. 20. <em>Dickens Search</em>. Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1859-04-30_All_The_Year_Round_The_Blacksmith">https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1859-04-30_All_The_Year_Round_The_Blacksmith</a>.<a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1859-04-30_All_The_Year_Round_The_Blacksmith.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'The Blacksmith.'&nbsp;<em>All the Year Round&nbsp;</em>(30 April 1859): p. 20.</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Periodical">Periodical</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=93&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=All+the+Year+Round">All the Year Round</a>OLD England, she has great warriors, Great princes, and poets great; But the Blacksmith is not to be quite forgot, In the history of the State. He is rich in the best of all metals, Yet silver he lacks and gold; And he payeth his due, and his heart is true, Though he bloweth both hot and cold. The boldest is he of incendiaries That ever the wide world saw, And a forger as rank as e’er robbed the Bank, Though he never doth break the law. He hath shoes that are worn by strangers, Yet he laugheth and maketh more; And a share (concealed) in the poor man’s field, Yet it adds to the poor man’s store. Then, hurrah for the iron Blacksmith! And hurrah for his iron crew! And whenever we go where his forges glow, We’ll sing what A MAN can do.18590430https://www.dickenssearch.com/files/original/3/The_Blacksmith/1859-04-30_The_Blacksmith.pdf
4https://www.dickenssearch.com/items/show/4'The British Lion'Published in the <em>Daily News</em> (24 January 1846).Dickens, Charles<em>British Newspapers Archive</em><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1846-01-24">1846-01-24</a><em>British Newspapers Archive, </em><a href="https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/bl/0000051/18460124/061/0005">https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/bl/0000051/18460124/061/0005</a>.&nbsp;<br />Some rights reserved. This work permits non-commercial use, distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the original author and source are credited<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Poem">Poem</a>1846-01-24-Daily_News_The_British_LionDickens, Charles. 'The British Lion.' <em>Daily News</em> (21 January 1841): p. 5. <em>Dickens Search.</em> Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1846-01-24-Daily_News_The_British_Lion">https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1846-01-24-Daily_News_The_British_Lion</a>.<a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1846-01-24_Daily_News_The_British_Lion.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'The British Lion.'&nbsp;<em>The Daily News </em>(24 January 1846): p. 5.</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Newspaper">Newspaper</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=93&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Daily+News">Daily News</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=95&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=CATNACH">CATNACH</a>A NEW SONG, BUT AN OLD STORY TUNE. - The Great Sea-Snake. Oh, p’raps you may heard, and if not, I’ll sing, Of the British Lion free, That was constantly a-going for to make a spring Upon his en-e-me; But who, being rather groggy at the knees, Broke down, always before; And generally gave a feeble wheeze Instead of a loud roar. Right toor rol, loor rol, fee faw fum, The British Lion bold! That was always a-going for to do great things, And was always being “sold”! He was carried about, in a caravan, And was show&#039;d in country parts, And they said “Walk-up! Be in time! He can Eat Corn-Law-Leagues like tarts!” And his showmen, shouting there and then, To puff him didn’t fail; And they said, as they peep&#039;d into his den, “Oh, Don’t he wag his tail!” Now, the principal keeper of this poor old beast, WAN HUMBUG was his name, Would once ev’ry day stir him up - at least - And wasn’t that a Game! For he hadn’t a tooth, and he hadn’t a claw, In that “Struggle” so “Sublime;” And, however sharp they touch’d him on the raw, He couldn’t come up to time. And this, you will observe, was the reason why WAN HUMBUG, on weak grounds, Was forced to make believe that he heard his cry In all unlikely sounds. So there wasn’t a bleat from an Essex Calf, Or a Duke, or a Lordling slim; But he said, with a very triumphant laugh, “I’m blest if that ain’t him.” At length, wery bald in his mane and tail, This British Lion growed: He pined, and declined, and he satisfied The last debt which he owed. And when they came to examine the skin, It was a wonder sore, To find that the an-i-mal within Was nothing but a BOAR! Right toor rol, loor rol, fee faw fum, The British Lion bold! That was always a-going for to do great things, And was always being &quot;sold&quot;!18460124https://www.dickenssearch.com/files/original/3/The_British_Lion/1846-01-24-Daily_News_The_British_Lion.pdf
71https://www.dickenssearch.com/items/show/71'The Churchyard'From the autograph album of Maria Beadnell (November 1831).Dickens, CharlesThe Charles Dickens Museum, <a href="http://www.collections.dickensmuseum.com/object-b319--1971-1-105" target="_blank" rel="noopener">http://www.collections.dickensmuseum.com/object-b319--1971-1-105</a>.; Autograph Album of Maria Beadnell.<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1831-11">1831-11</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Poem">Poem</a>1831-11_Autograph_Album_of_Maria_Beadnell_The_Churchyard<span>Dickens, Charles. 'The Churchyard.' Autograph Album of Maria Beadnell (November 1831).&nbsp;</span><em>Dickens Search.</em><span>&nbsp;Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date].&nbsp;</span><a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1831-11_Autograph_Album_of_Maria_Beadnell_The_Churchyard">https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1831-11_Autograph_Album_of_Maria_Beadnell_The_Churchyard</a><span><a href="https://dickenssearch.com/poetry/1831-11_Autograph_Album_of_Maria_Beadnell_The_Devils_Walk"></a>.</span><a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1831-11_Autograph_Album_of_Maria_Beadnell_The_Churchyard.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener"><span>'The Churchyard.' Autograph Album of Maria Beadnell (November 1831).<br /></span></a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=93&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Autograph+Album+of+Maria+Beadnell.">Autograph Album of Maria Beadnell.</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=95&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=C.D.">C.D.</a>How many tales these Tombstones tell Of life&#039;s e&#039;er changing scene, Of by gone days spent ill or well By those who gay have been; Who have been happy, rich, and vain, Who now are dead, and cold, Who&#039;ve gone alike to dust again The rich, poor, young, and old. Here lies a Man who lived to save Of Wordly gain a store; – It has not saved him from the grave He ne&#039;er can use it more. A marble Tablet tells his fame To those who shall survive; – It tells us not who blest his name While he remained alive. Now mark the contrast. – Near this mound Lie the remains of one With whom no fault was ever found, Who spotless as the sun Fulfilled his Christian duties here, Both cheerfully and well But no rich velvet deck&#039;d his Bier No lines his virtues tell. And is it so! Is man so vain, To riches such a Slave As to take his pride of gold, and gain E&#039;en with him to the Grave! – Why let him take it. – Let him see If &#039;twill avail him there, Where we must all one dread day be, Where all Men must appear. Here sleeps a girl. – A year ago Bright, beautiful, and gay, Peaceful, and happy, then but Oh! How soon such days decay: They changed to times of shame and brief And this the mournful token Death was to her a glad relief For her young heart was broken. Aye – broken. – Let the Roué smile And let him boldly speed Exulting in his shameless guile To boast of such a deed. Let him boast gaily among men – They&#039;ll hear without surprize And let him boast if he can when On his death bed he lies. In truth it is a manly deed With woman&#039;s heart to trifle, To break the bent and bruised reed And with neglect to stifle The feelings man himself has raised Which he can&#039;t prize too high. – To leave the object he has praised Alone to weep and die. But why pursue this painful theme Or longer here remain The dead sleep sound; they cannot dream Of sorrow, grief, or pain. From Man to GOD they will appeal Where no man can dissemble There will the wronged for justice kneel There will the Tyrant tremble.18311101
70https://www.dickenssearch.com/items/show/70'The Devil's Walk'From the autograph album of Maria Beadnell (November 1831).Dickens, CharlesThe Charles Dickens Museum, <a href="http://www.collections.dickensmuseum.com/object-b319--1971-1-105" target="_blank" rel="noopener">http://www.collections.dickensmuseum.com/object-b319--1971-1-105</a>.; Autograph Album of Maria Beadnell.<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1831-11">1831-11</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Poem">Poem</a>1831-11_Autograph_Album_of_Maria_Beadnell_The_Devils_Walk<span>Dickens, Charles. 'The Devil's Walk.' Autograph Album of Maria Beadnell (November 1831). </span><em>Dickens Search.</em><span>&nbsp;Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date].&nbsp;</span><a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1831-11_Autograph_Album_of_Maria_Beadnell_The_Devils_Walk">https://dickenssearch.com/verse/</a><span><a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1831-11_Autograph_Album_of_Maria_Beadnell_The_Devils_Walk">1831-11_Autograph_Album_of_Maria_Beadnell_The_Devils_Walk</a>.</span><a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1831-11_Autograph_Album_of_Maria_Beadnell_The_Devils_Walk.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'The Devil's Walk.' From the autograph album of Maria Beadnell (1830-1831).</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Autograph+Album">Autograph Album</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=95&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=C.D.">C.D.</a>While sitting one day in his well aired halls Of which we&#039;ve often heard tell, The Devil determined to make a few calls To see if his Friends were well: So he put on his best and himself he drest In his long tailed coat of green And he buttoned it tightly o&#039;er his chest Lest his own tail should be seen. To the House of Lords the Devil went straight To learn the state of Nations, And with mixed feelings of pleasure and hate He heard their deliberations; For he saw a few Nobles rich and proud War &#039;gainst the people and Prince, And he thought with pain tho&#039; he laughed aloud Of the Wars in Heav&#039;n long since. Then to Irving&#039;s Chapel he gaily hied To hear the new &quot;unknown tongue&quot; And he welcomed with great pleasure and pride The Maniacs he&#039;d got among: For it always fills the Devil with glee To hear Religion mocked, And it pleases him very much to see Sights at which others are shocked. Then away to Bristol he quickly walked T&#039;indulge in meditation, And he gaily laughed as he slowly stalked O&#039;er a scene of desolation. He honored the hand that had done the deed Vowed that an &quot;Anti&quot; he&#039;d be Then back to London he started with speed His old friend Sir Charles to see. The Devil was walking up Regent Street As some other great folks do When a very old friend he chanced to meet Whom it pleased him much to view. Let those describe his great pleasure who can On the Member for Preston spying He took off his hat for he envied the Man His pow&#039;r of deceit and lying. As the Devil was passing I won&#039;t say where But not far from Lombard Street, He saw at a window a face so fair That it made him start and weep For a passing thought rushed over his brain Of days no beyond recal, He thought of the bright angelic train And of his own wretched fall. A dim cold feeling of what he had been Wrung from him a bitter groan He gazed and thought of the Angels who sing Surrounding Heaven&#039;s High Throne. He thought of the time, – the happy time, – When among them he had been And he madly cursed the impious crime Which plunged him in pain and sin. This feeling vanished as soon as it came And he turned to walk away But sought for this Album to find the name Of her he&#039;d seen that day. He cast his eye swiftly o&#039;er these few lines To drive away thoughts so sad And he said with glee &quot;they&#039;re worthy of me For I&#039;m sure they&#039;re devilish bad.&quot;18311101
8https://www.dickenssearch.com/items/show/8'The Grateful Impromptu'From the autograph album of Christiana Weller (March 1844).Dickens, Charles<em><span>The Charles Dickens Museum</span></em>, <a href="http://www.collections.dickensmuseum.com/object-a378" target="_blank" rel="noopener">http://www.collections.dickensmuseum.com/object-a378</a>.; <em>British Library Newspapers</em><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1844-03">1844-03</a><em>British Library Newspapers,</em> <a href="https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/bl/0000035/18990605/064/0002" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/bl/0000035/18990605/064/0002</a>. Some rights reserved. This work permits non-commercial use, distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the original author and source are credited.<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Poem">Poem</a>1844-03_Christiana_Thompson_The_Grateful_ImpromptuDickens, Charles. 'The Grateful Impromptu.' <span>Autograph Album of Christiana Weller (March 1844).</span>&nbsp;<em>Dickens Search.</em> Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1844-03_Christiana_Thompson_The_Grateful_Impromptu">https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1844-03_Christiana_Thompson_The_Grateful_Impromptu</a>.<a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1844-03_Christiana_Thompson_The_Grateful_Impromptu.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'The Grateful Impromptu' (March 1844).</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Autograph+Album">Autograph Album</a>I put in a book once, by hook or by crook, The whole race (as I thought) of a &quot;feller&quot;, Who happily pleased the town&#039;s taste (much diseased), – And the name of this person was Weller. I find to my cost that one Weller I lost, Cruel Destiny so to arrange it! I love her dear name which has won me some fame, But great Heaven how gladly I&#039;d change it!18440301https://www.dickenssearch.com/files/original/3/The_Grateful_Impromptu/1845-10-21_before_i_put_in_a_book.jpg
9https://www.dickenssearch.com/items/show/9'The Hymn of the Wiltshire Labourers'Published in the <em>Daily News </em>(14 February 1846).Dickens, Charles<em>British Library Newspapers</em><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1846-02-14">1846-02-14</a><em>British Library Newspapers,</em> <a href="https://link.gale.com/apps/doc/BA3202823099/BNCN?u=loughuni&amp;sid=BNCN&amp;xid=c30600e4" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://link.gale.com/apps/doc/BA3202823099/BNCN?u=loughuni&amp;sid=BNCN&amp;xid=c30600e4</a>. Some rights reserved. This work permits non-commercial use, distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the original author and source are credited.<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Poem">Poem</a>1846-02-14_Daily_News_The_Hymn_of_the_Wiltshire_LabourersDickens, Charles. 'The Hymn of the Wiltshire Labourers.' <em>Daily News</em> (14 February 1846): p. 5. <em>Dickens Search.</em> Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1846-02-14_Daily_News_The_Hymn_of_the_Wiltshire_Labourers">https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1846-02-14_Daily_News_The_Hymn_of_the_Wiltshire_Labourers</a>.<a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1846-02-14_Daily_News_The_Hymn_of_the_Wiltshire_Labourers.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'The Hymn of the Wiltshire Labourers.' <em>Daily News</em> (14 February 1846): p. 5.</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Newspaper">Newspaper</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=93&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Daily+News">Daily News</a>&quot;Don&#039;t you all think that we have a great need to Cry to our God to put it in the hearst of our greacious Queen and her Members of Parlerment to grant us free bread.&quot; - LUCY SIMPKINS, AT BREMHILL. “Oh GOD, who by thy Prophet’s hand Didst smite the rocky brake, Whence water came, at thy command, They people’s thirst to slake; Strike, now, upon this granite wall, Stern, obdurate, and high; And let some drops of pity fall For us who starve and die! The GOD, who took a little child, And set him in the midst, And promised him His mercy mild, As, by Thy Son, Thou didst: Look down upon our children dear, So gaunt, so cold, so spare, And let their images appear, Where Lords and Genry are! Oh GOD, teach them to feel how we, When our poor infants droop, Are weakened in our trust in Thee, And how our spirits stoop; For, in thy rest, so bright and fair, All tears and sorrows sleep: And their young looks, so full of care, Would make Thine Angels weep! The GOD, who with His finger drew The Judgment coming on, Write, for these men, what must ensure, Ere many years be gone! Oh GOD whose bow is in the sky, Let them not brave and dare, Until they look (too late) on high, And see An Arrow there! Oh GOD remind them! In the bread They break upon the knee, Those sacred words may yet be read, “In memory of Me”! Oh GOD remind them! of His sweet Compassion for the poor, And how He gave them Bread to eat, And went from door to door! CHARLES DICKENS18460214https://www.dickenssearch.com/files/original/3/The_Hymn_of_the_Wiltshire_Labourers/1846-02-14_Daily_News_The_Hymn_of_the_Wiltshire_Labourers.jpeg
17https://www.dickenssearch.com/items/show/17'The Ivy Green'From&nbsp;<em>The Pickwick Papers, </em>ch. 6, number 3 (May 1836).Dickens, Charles<em>The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club, </em>Chapter 6. Number 3 (May 1836), p. 55. <em>UVic Libraries,</em> <a href="https://vault.library.uvic.ca/concern/generic_works/d9b13cdd-9d78-4f71-947e-5ad5fb7d50e4?">https://vault.library.uvic.ca/concern/generic_works/d9b13cdd-9d78-4f71-947e-5ad5fb7d50e4?</a>.&nbsp;Chapman and Hall<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1836-05">1836-05</a><em><em>UVic Libraries, </em></em>Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial,&nbsp;<a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/</a>.<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Poem">Poem</a>1836-05_Pickwick_Papers_The_Ivy_GreenDickens, Charles. 'The Ivy Green' from <em>The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club.</em> Issue 3, Chapter 6 (May 1836), p. 55. <em>Dickens Search.</em> Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1836-05_Pickwick_Papers_The_Ivy_Green">https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1836-05_Pickwick_Papers_The_Ivy_Green</a>.<a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1836-05_Pickwick_Papers_The_Ivy_Green.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener"><span>'The Ivy Green.'&nbsp;</span><em>The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club.</em><span>&nbsp;Issue 3, Chapter 6 (May 1836): p. 55.</span></a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Serial">Serial</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=93&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=The+Pickwick+Papers">The Pickwick Papers</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=95&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Boz">Boz</a>Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy green, That creepeth o’er ruins old! Of right choice food are his meals, I ween, In his cell so lone and cold. The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed, To pleasure his dainty whim: And the mouldering 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. Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, And a staunch old heart has he. How closely he twineth, how tight he clings, To his friend the huge Oak Tree! And slily he traileth along the ground, And his leaves he gently waves, As he joyously hugs and crawleth round The rich mould of dead men’s graves. Creeping where grim death hath been, A rare old plant is the Ivy green. Whole ages have fled and their works decayed, And nations have scattered been; But the stout old Ivy shall never fade, From its hale and hearty green. The brave old plant, in its lonely days, Shall fatten upon the past: For the stateliest building man can raise Is the Ivy’s food at last. Creeping on, where time has been, A rare old plant is the Ivy green.18360501https://www.dickenssearch.com/files/original/3/The_Ivy_Green/1836-05_Pickwick_Papers_The_Ivy_Green.pdf
2https://www.dickenssearch.com/items/show/2'The Quack Doctor’s Proclamation'Published in <em>The Examiner</em> (14 August 1841).Dickens, Charles<em>British Newspapers Archive</em><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1841-08-14">1841-08-14</a><em>British Newspapers Archive,</em> <a href="https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/bl/0000054/18410814/001/0005">https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/bl/0000054/18410814/001/0005</a>.&nbsp;Some rights reserved. This work permits non-commercial use, distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the original author and source are credited.<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Poem">Poem</a>1841-08-14-The_Examiner_The_Quack_Doctors_ProclamationDickens, Charles. 'The Quack Doctor's Proclamation.' <em>The Examiner</em> (14 August 1841): p. 517. <em>Dickens Search.</em> Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1841-08-14-The_Examiner_The_Quack_Doctors_Proclamation">https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1841-08-14-The_Examiner_The_Quack_Doctors_Proclamation</a>.<a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1841-08-14_The_Examiner_The_Quack_Doctors_Proclamation.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'The Quack Doctor's Proclamation.' <em>The Examiner<span>&nbsp;</span></em>(14 August 1841): p. 517.</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Newspaper">Newspaper</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=93&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=The+Examiner">The Examiner</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=95&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=W.">W.</a>Tune – A Cobbler there was. An astonishing doctor has just come to town, Who will do all the faculty perfectly brown: He knows all diseases, their causes, and ends; And he ‘begs to appeal to his medical friends.’ Tol de rol: Diddle doll: Tol de rol, de dol, Diddle doll Tol de rol doll. He’s a magnetic doctor, and knows how to keep The whole of a Government snoring asleep To popular clamours; till popular pins Are stuck in their midriffs – and then he begins. Tol de rol. He’s a clairvoyant subject, and readily reads His countrymen’s wishes, conditions, and needs, With many more fine things I can’t tell in rhyme – And he keeps both his eyes shut, the whole of the time. Tol de rol. You mustn’t expect him to talk; but you’ll take Most particular notice the doctor’s awake, Though for aught from his words, or his looks that you reap, he Might just as well be most confoundedly sleepy. Tol de rol. Homëopathy too, he has practiced for ages; (You’ll find his prescriptions in Luke Hansard’s pages) Just giving his patient when maddened by pain, - Of Reform the ten thousandeth part of a grain. Tol de rol. He’s a med’cine for Ireland, in portable papers; The infallible cure for political vapours; A neat label round it his ‘prentices tie – ‘Put your trust in the Lord, and keep this powder dry!’ Tol de rol. He’s a corn doctor also, of wonderful skill, – No cutting, no rooting-up, purging, or pill – You’re merely to take, ‘stead of walking or riding, The sweet schoolboy exercise – innocent sliding. Tol de rol. There’s no advice gratis. If high ladies send His legitimate fee, he’s their soft spoken friend. At the great public counter with one hand behind him, And one in his waistcoat, they’re certain to find him. Tol de rol. He has only to add he’s the real Doctor Flam, All others being purely fictitious and sham; The house is a large one, tall, slated, and white, With a lobby; and lights in the passage at night. Tol de rol: Diddle doll: Tol de rol, de doll, Diddle doll Tol de rol doll.18410814https://www.dickenssearch.com/files/original/3/The_Quack_Doctor_s_Proclamation/1841-08-14-The_Examiner_The_Quack_Doctors_Proclamation.pdf
11https://www.dickenssearch.com/items/show/11'To Ariel'From the autograph album of Priscilla Horton (26 October 1838).Dickens, CharlesAutograph Album of Priscilla Horton, <a href="https://libwww.freelibrary.org/digital/item/31683" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://libwww.freelibrary.org/digital/item/31683</a>.<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1838-10-26">1838-10-26</a><span>Courtesy of the Free Library of Philadelphia, Rare Book Department.<br /></span><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Poem">Poem</a>1838-10-26-Priscilla_Horton_To_ArielDickens, Charles. 'To Ariel.' Autograph Album of Priscilla Horton (26 October 1838). <em>Dickens Search.</em> Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1838-10-26-Priscilla_Horton_To_Ariel">https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1838-10-26-Priscilla_Horton_To_Ariel</a>.<a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1838-10-26_Priscilla_Horton_To_Ariel.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'To Ariel.' Autograph Album of Priscilla Horton (26 October 1838).</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Autograph+Album">Autograph Album</a>Some saints there are who roar and cry, and rave and scream and bawl, To force some Spirit housed on high To bless them with a call; But though they sue on bended knee That Spirit’s deaf and dumb. – oh Spirit if you called on me, How very soon I’d come!18381026https://www.dickenssearch.com/files/original/3/To_Ariel/1838-10-26-To_Ariel.pdf
62https://www.dickenssearch.com/items/show/62'To Daniel Maclise'From a letter to Daniel Maclise (2 June 1840).Dickens, Charles<span>'To Daniel Maclise.' Letter to Daniel Maclise. 2 June 1840. </span><em>The Letters of Charles Dickens. The</em><span>&nbsp;</span><em>Pilgrim Edition.<span>&nbsp;</span></em><span>Edited by Madeline House and Graham Storey. Volume 2 (1840-1841), p. 79. Oxford University Press, 1969.</span>; Dickens, Charles. 'ALs to Daniel Maclise.' Letters, <a href="https://libwww.freelibrary.org/digital/item/28617">https://libwww.freelibrary.org/digital/item/28617</a>. Free Library of Philadelphia.<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1840-06-02">1840-06-02</a><span>Courtesy of the Free Library of Philadelphia, Rare Book Department.<br /></span>Parody of Lord Byron&#039;s &#039;To Thomas Moore&#039;, first stanza: <br /> <br /> My boat is on the shore,<br /> And my bark is on the sea,<br /> But, before I go, Tom Moore,<br /> Here&#039;s a double health to thee!<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Poem">Poem</a>1840-06-02_Letter_To_Daniel_Maclise_PoemDickens, Charles. 'To Daniel Maclise' (2 June 1840). <em>Dickens Search.</em> Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1840-06-02_Letter_To_Daniel_Maclise_Poem">https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1840-06-02_Letter_To_Daniel_Maclise_Poem</a>.<a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1840-06-02_Letter_To_Daniel_Maclise_Poem.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'To Daniel Maclise' (2 June 1840).</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Letter">Letter</a>My foot is in the house, My bath is on the sea, And, before I take a souse, Here’s a single note to thee.18400602https://www.dickenssearch.com/files/original/3/To_Daniel_Maclise/1840-06-02_Letter_To_Daniel_Maclise.pdf
119https://www.dickenssearch.com/items/show/119'To J. P. Harley'From a letter to J. P. Harley (16 March 1840).Dickens, Charles<span>'To J. P. Harley.' Letter to J. P. Harley. 16 March 1840. </span><em>The Letters of Charles Dickens. The</em><span>&nbsp;</span><em>Pilgrim Edition.<span>&nbsp;</span></em><span>Edited by Madeline House and Graham Storey. Volume 2 (1840-1841), p. 44. Oxford University Press, 1969.</span><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1840-03-16">1840-03-16</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Poem">Poem</a>1840-03-16_Letter_To_J_P_Harley_PoemDickens, Charles. 'To J. P. Harley' (16 March 1840). <em>Dickens Search.</em> Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1840-03-16_Letter_To_J_P_Harley_Poem">https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1840-03-16_Letter_To_J_P_Harley_Poem</a>.<a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1840-03-16_Letter_To_J_P_Harley_Poem.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'To J. P. Harley' (16 March 1840).</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Letter">Letter</a>If you know no reason Why good wine in season Should ever be forgot18400316
81https://www.dickenssearch.com/items/show/81'To John Forster'From a letter to John Forster (12 February 1840).Dickens, CharlesForster, John. <em>The Life of Charles Dickens</em>. Volume 1 (1812-1842), p. 196. Chapman and Hall, 1872.; <span>Internet Archive, <a href="https://archive.org/details/in.ernet.dli.2015.458417/page/n217/mode/2up" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://archive.org/details/in.ernet.dli.2015.458417/page/n217/mode/2up</a></span><a href="https://archive.org/details/letterscharlesd09dickgoog/page/n363/mode/2up" target="_blank" rel="noopener"></a><span>.</span><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1840-02-12">1840-02-12</a><i>Internet</i><span>&nbsp;<em>Archive</em>: Access to the Archive’s Collections is provided at no cost and is granted for scholarship and research purposes only (</span><span class="s1"><a href="https://archive.org/about/terms.php" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://archive.org/about/terms.php</a>).</span><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Poem">Poem</a>1840-02-12_Letter_To_John_Forster_Poem<span>Dickens, Charles. 'Letter to John Forster' (12 February 1840).&nbsp;</span><em>Dickens Search.</em><span>&nbsp;Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date].&nbsp;</span><a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1840-02-12_Letter_To_John_Forster_Poem">https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1840-02-12_Letter_To_John_Forster_Poem</a><span>.</span><a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1840-02-12_Letter_To_John_Forster_Poem.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener"><span>'Letter to John Forster' (12 February 1840).</span></a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Letter">Letter</a>My heart is at Windsor, My heart isn&#039;t here; My heart is at Windsor, A following my dear.18400212https://www.dickenssearch.com/files/original/3/To_John_Forster/1840-02-12_Letter_To_John_Forster_Poem.png
110https://www.dickenssearch.com/items/show/110'To John Forster'From a letter to John Forster (August 1838).Dickens, Charles'To John Forster.' Letter to John Forster. [? August 1838]. <em>The Letters of Charles Dickens. The</em><span>&nbsp;</span><em>Pilgrim Edition. </em>Edited by Madeline House and Graham Storey. Volume 1 (1820-1839), p. 427. Oxford University Press, 1965.Parody of William Cowper&#039;s &#039;The Diverting History of John Gilpin&#039;, last stanza:<br /> <br /> Now let us sing, &#039;Long live the king,<br /> And Gilpin, long live he;<br /> And when he next doth ride abroad,<br /> May I be there to see!&#039;<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Poem">Poem</a>1838-08_Letter_To_John_Forster_PoemDickens, Charles. 'To John Forster' (August 1838). <em>Dickens Search</em>. Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1838-08_Letter_To_John_Forster_Poem">https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1838-08_Letter_To_John_Forster_Poem</a>.<a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1838-08_Letter_To_John_Forster_Poem.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'To John Forster' (August 1838).</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Letter">Letter</a>So let us scream long live the Queen And Jerdan long live he, And when he dies, let’s have no more Of sitch humbuggere.18380801
61https://www.dickenssearch.com/items/show/61'To John Groves'From a letter to John Groves (1 September 1838).Dickens, Charles'To John Groves.' Letter to John Groves (Early September 1838). <em>The Letters of Charles Dickens. The</em> <em>Pilgrim Edition. </em>Edited by Madeline House and Graham Storey. Volume 1 (1820-1839), pp. 432-433. Oxford University Press, 1988.<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1838-09">1838-09</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Poem">Poem</a>1838-09_Letter_To_John_Groves_PoemDickens, Charles. 'To John Groves' (September 1838). <em>Dickens Search.</em> Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1838-09_Letter_To_John_Groves_Poem">https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1838-09_Letter_To_John_Groves_Poem</a>.<a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1838-09_Letter_To_John_Groves_Poem.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'To John Groves' (1 September 1838).</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Letter">Letter</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=95&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Revolver">Revolver</a>Oh Mr. Groves If so be you approves Of writings in rhyme Knocked off in quick time And set down at once By an indolent dunce Who to Alum bay runs - Read these lines Mr. Groves. For those same twenty heads Who are coming for beds From Cowes or from Rhyde, Or from some hole beside, Don’t fit up that “Tent” Which in our room is meant For some very small child Of years meek and mild, Because I’ve a wife And I swear on my life It would our blushes bring To have that sort of thing, -So no stranger coves If you please Mr. Groves And when people repair Here, to dine in the air Just give ‘em their grub On some barrel or tub In the cow-yard or garden; -<br /> I’ll bet a brass farden They’ll eat as much cheese, And cough spit and sneeze And make as much shindy As outside our windy; So there put their loaves If you please Mr. Groves. And as Ann is a maid By no means afraid Of doing what’s right By day or by night, And perfectly able To wait well at table, If she’s wrong here and there Don’t bluster and swear But of slight faults absolve her. Yours Truly - Revolver.18380901
124https://www.dickenssearch.com/items/show/124'To Mary Boyle'From a letter to Mary Boyle (16 January 1854).Dickens, Charles'Miss Mary Boyle.' <em>The Letters of Charles Dickens. Edited by his Sister-in-Law and his Eldest Daughter.</em>&nbsp;Volume 1 (1833-1856), p. 346. Chapman and Hall, 1880.; <span>Internet Archive, <a href="https://archive.org/details/letterscharlesd09dickgoog/page/n363/mode/2up" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://archive.org/details/letterscharlesd09dickgoog/page/n363/mode/2up</a>.</span><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1854-01-16">1854-01-16</a><i>Internet</i><span>&nbsp;<em>Archive</em>: Access to the Archive’s Collections is provided at no cost and is granted for scholarship and research purposes only (</span><span class="s1"><a href="https://archive.org/about/terms.php" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://archive.org/about/terms.php</a>).</span><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Poem">Poem</a>1854-01-16_Letter_To_Mary_Boyle_Poem<span>Dickens, Charles. 'To Mary Boyle' (16 January 1854). </span><em>Dickens Search.</em><span>&nbsp;Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date].&nbsp;</span><a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1854-01-16_Letter_To_Mary_Boyle_Poem" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1854-01-16_Letter_To_Mary_Boyle_Poem</a>.<a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1854-01-16_Letter_To_Mary_Boyle_Poem.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener"><span>'To Mary Boyle' (16 January 1854).</span></a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Letter">Letter</a>When the praise thou meetest To thine ear is sweetest O then REMEMBER JOE!18540116https://www.dickenssearch.com/files/original/3/To_Mary_Boyle/1854-01-16_Letter_To_Mary_Boyle_Poem.pdf
109https://www.dickenssearch.com/items/show/109'To Mr. Hicks'From a letter to Charles Hicks (26 July 1837).Dickens, Charles'To Charles Hicks.' Letter to Charles Hicks. (26 July 1837). <em>The Letters of Charles Dickens. The</em><span>&nbsp;</span><em>Pilgrim Edition. </em>Edited by Madeline House and Graham Storey. Volume 1 (1820-1839), p. 287. Oxford University Press, 1965.<a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1837-07-26">1837-07-26</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Poem">Poem</a>1837-07-26_Letter_To_Charles_Hicks_PoemDickens, Charles. 'To Charles Hicks' (2 June 1840). <em>Dickens Search</em>. Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1837-07-26_Letter_To_Charles_Hicks_Poem">https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1837-07-26_Letter_To_Charles_Hicks_Poem</a>.<a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1837-07-26_Letter_To_Charles_Hicks_Poem.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'To Mr. Hicks' (26 July 1837).</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Letter">Letter</a>Oh Mr. Hick – S, I’m heartily sick Of this sixteenth Pickwick Which is just in the nick For the publishing trick, And will read nice and slick, If you’ll only be quick. I don’t write on tick, That’s my comfort, Avick!18370726
122https://www.dickenssearch.com/items/show/122'To Mrs Cowden Clarke'From a letter to Mrs Cowden Clarke (13 January 1849).Dickens, Charles'To Mrs Cowden Clarke.' <em>The Letters of Charles Dickens. The Pilgrim Edition. </em><span>Edited by Graham Storey and K. J. Fielding. Volume 5 (1847-1849), p. 476. Oxford University Press, 1980.</span><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1849-01-13">1849-01-13</a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Poem">Poem</a>1849-01-13_Letter_To_Mrs_Cowden_Clarke_Poem<span>Dickens, Charles. 'To Mrs Cowden Clarke' (13 January 1849).&nbsp;</span><em>Dickens Search.</em><span>&nbsp;Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date].&nbsp;</span><a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1849-01-13_Letter_To_Mrs_Cowden_Clarke_Poem">https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1849-01-13_Letter_To_Mrs_Cowden_Clarke_Poem</a>.<a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1849-01-13_Letter_To_Mrs_Cowden_Clarke_Poem.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener"><span>'To Mrs Cowden Clarke' (13 January 1849).</span></a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Letter">Letter</a>– But had you seen him in “Used up”, His eye so beaming and so clear, When on his stool he sat to sup The oxtail – little Romer near etc etc – you would have forgotten and forgiven all.18490113
126https://www.dickenssearch.com/items/show/126'To Mrs Horne'From a letter to Mrs Horne (20 October 1856).Dickens, Charles'Mrs. Horne.' <em>The Letters of Charles Dickens. Edited by his Sister-in-Law and his Eldest Daughter.</em> Volume 1 (1833-1856), p. 456-457. Chapman and Hall, 1880.; <span>Internet Archive, <a href="https://archive.org/details/letterscharlesd09dickgoog/page/n473/mode/2up" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://archive.org/details/letterscharlesd09dickgoog/page/n473/mode/2up</a>.</span><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=40&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=1856-10-20">1856-10-20</a><i>Internet</i><span>&nbsp;<em>Archive</em>: Access to the Archive’s Collections is provided at no cost and is granted for scholarship and research purposes only (</span><span class="s1"><a href="https://archive.org/about/terms.php" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://archive.org/about/terms.php</a>).</span><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Poem">Poem</a>1856-10-20_Letter_To_Mrs_Horne_Poem<span>Dickens, Charles. 'To Mrs Horne' (20 October 1856). </span><em>Dickens Search.</em><span>&nbsp;Eds. Emily Bell and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date].&nbsp;</span><a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1856-10-20_Letter_To_Mrs_Horne_Poem" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1856-10-20_Letter_To_Mrs_Horne_Poem</a>.<a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1856-10-20_Letter_To_Mrs_Horne_Poem.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener"><span>'To Mrs Horne' (20 October 1856).</span></a><a href="/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Letter">Letter</a>My heart disowns Ophelia Jones; only I think it was a more sounding name, Are these the tones, – Volumnia Jones? No. Again it seems doubtful. God bless her bones, Petronia Jones! I think not. Carve I on stones Olympia Jones? Can that be the name? Fond memory favours it more than any other. My love to her.18561020https://www.dickenssearch.com/files/original/3/To_Mrs_Horne/1856-10-20_Letter_To_Mrs_Horne_Poem.pdf