If, in these pages, written in remembrance of my father, I should tell you my dear friends, nothing new of him, I can, at least, promise you that what I shall tell will be told faithfully, if simply, and perhaps there may be some things not familiar to you.

 

A great many writers have taken it upon themselves to write lives of my father, to tell anecdotes¹ of him, and to print all manner of things about him.  Of all these published books I have read but one, the only genuine “Life” thus far written of him, the one sanctioned by my father himself, p. 8namely: “The Life of Charles Dickens,” by John Forster.

 

But in what I write about my father I shall depend chiefly upon my own memory of him, for I wish no other or dearer remembrance.  My love for my father has never been touched or approached by any other love.  I hold him in my heart of hearts as a man apart from all other men, as one apart from all other beings.

 

Of my father’s childhood it is but natural that I should know very little more than the knowledge possessed³ by the great public.  But I never remember hearing him allude⁴ at any time, or under any circumstances, to those unhappy days in his life except in the one instance of his childish love and admiration⁵ for “Gad’s Hill,” which was destined⁶ to become so closely associated with his name and works.

 

He had a very strong and faithful attachment⁷ for places: Chatham, I think, being his first love in this respect.  For it was p. 9here, when a child, and a very sickly child, poor little fellow, that he found in an old spare room a store of books, among which were “Roderick Random,” “Peregrine Pickle,” “Humphrey Clinker,” “Tom Jones,” “The Vicar of Wakefield,” “Don Quixote,” “Gil Blas,” “Robinson Crusoe,” “The Arabian Nights,” and other volumes.  “They were,” as Mr. Forster wrote, “a host of friends when he had no single friend.”  And it was while living at Chatham that he first saw “Gad’s Hill.”

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