"MY DEAR DICKENS,--I received the mournful intelligence of our friend's decease last night at eleven, and the shock was great indeed. I have just dispatched the announcement to poor Forster, who will, I am sure, sympathise with us in our bereavement. I know not what to think of the probable cause of his death,--I reject the idea of the Butcher Boy, for the orders he must have in his (the Raven's) life-time received on account of the Raven himself must have been considerable. I rather cling to the notion of _felo de se_--but this will no doubt come out upon the post-mortem. How blest we are to have such an intelligent coroner as Mr. Wakley. I think he was just of those melancholic habits which are the noticeable signs of your intended suicide, his solitary life, those gloomy tones,--when he did speak, which was always to the purpose. Witness his last dying speech, 'Hallo! old girl,' which breathes of cheerfulness and triumphant recognition,--his solemn suit of raven black, which never grew rusty. Altogether his character was the very prototype of a Byron hero--and even of a Scott--a Master of Ravenswood. He ought to be glad he had no family. I suppose he seems to have intended it, however, for his solicitude to deposit in those Banks in the garden his savings was always very touching. I suppose his obsequies will take place immediately.
"It is beautiful, the idea of his return, even after death, to the scene of his early youth and all his associations, and lie with kindred dusts amid his own ancestral graves after having made such a noise in the world, having clearly booked his place in that immortality-coach driven by Dickens. Yes, he committed suicide; he felt he had done it and done with life. The hundreds of years! what were they to him? There was nothing more to live for--and he committed the rash act.--Sympathisingly yours,
It is evident from the following epistle, addressed to Forster at the time when "Dombey and Son" was appearing in monthly numbers, that Maclise, while acknowledging his intense admiration of the novelist's powers, could not bring himself to appreciate certain of his youthful creations:--
"MY DEAR FORSTER,--I think it very great--the old nautical-instrument-seller novel, and most promising. I'm never up to his young girls--he is so very fond of the age of 'Nell,' when they are most insipid. I hope he is not going to make another 'Slowboy'--but I am only trying to say something, and to find fault when there is none to find. _He is absolutely alone._--Ever yours,
