12th February 1826

Went to church. Listened to a sermon about the ‘perils of worldly indulgence and sins of the flesh’ from the pimply-faced young parson. Papa whispered to Mama, ‘the chance would be a fine thing!’ and she told him not to be so vulgar. (This particular divine appears at St. Marylebone from time to time and has a preposterous way of preaching – bobbing about, closing his eyes, violently waving his pocket-handkerchief and generally making a ridiculous display of himself – as if that might make it interesting.) 

The weather was rather foreboding and so we walked home directly after the service. But when we turned onto Johnson Street, I espied in the distance a smart black chaise pulling up to the pavement opposite our house. It was a very elegant sort of carriage, spotlessly clean, with glass windows, the sort of vehicle, in short, that rarely passes along our road. Letty remarked that it must be a wealthy relative of the Hathersages and, sure enough, a well-dressed young man emerged and helped his fellow passengers alight onto the pavement – viz. Mrs Hathersage and Selena – WHICH OCCASIONED A HORRIBLE SHOCK TO MY MENTAL EQUILIBRIUM. For the young man in question was none other than . . . MONTAGUE PYM! 

Fortunately, he did not catch sight of us coming down the road and was soon on his way. Can such a pretentious and arrogant snob – I care not if he is a fellow Neptunian! – have any claim on the affections of MY ANGEL? The pair of them appeared on the most horribly familiar and intimate terms. He even kissed her hand as he departed!

After supper, REELING IN MENTAL AGONY, I resolved to speak with Papa. He was sitting alone in the drawing-room, staring at the hats with a rather dejected air. I asked him how he had begun to court Mama (although I feared it must be walnut cake) and a quizzical look flitted across his countenance. Indeed, he seemed to grow visibly more cheerful, as he got up and came over to shake me warmly by the hand.

‘Holloa!’ he exclaimed. ‘My boy – do I guess correctly? Has the barbed dart of Cupid – that bare winged scoundrel – lodged itself in the bosom of another unlucky member of the Dickens clan? Do the manifold charms of some pretty young nymph lure you into that entangled thicket – oh! treacherous shrubbery! – which the young and foolhardy dub romance? Why, I congratulate you, my boy! This is capital news!’

I explained – without mentioning any names – that no-one cared to lure me anywhere. Moreover, that I now feared that I might have a love rival before I had even begun.

‘Take heart, my boy,’ replied my father. ‘The season is propitious!’

I said that I did not follow him; and he answered in verse:

‘Among the lasses on the green,

There none like you so fair is seen;

None so sweet, and none so fine,

Nor fit to be my VALENTINE.’

‘Send her a card, my boy – include a delicate little verse – a paean to her pearl-white skin – a hymn to her womanly virtue – and you shall triumph! As for this other fellow – whatever his merits – prince or pauper – soldier or sailor – he is not – and he never shall be – a Dickens!’

When he finished speaking, Papa swept his hand back in a grand and extravagant gesture, as if summarily dismissing my rival from the room. Unfortunately, he also succeeded in severely denting one of the hat boxes that was resting on the table; and a look of profound consternation immediately returned to his face. While he attempted to restore the pasteboard to a semblance of perfection, I asked if he had a plan for disposing of the hats. He replied, ‘with all expedition, my dear boy’, glancing nervously heavenwards (nb. indicating my mother, who had already retired to bed, not Our Lord). 

In truth, I think my father may already regret becoming an Honorary Secretary. He looked more than a little relieved when I said that I would be happy to help; and, once again, he shook me by the hand, with considerable vigour and enthusiasm.

Midnight

I wish I could stop dwelling upon it – but he kissed her hand! I think I am in a JEALOUS RAGE.

Will borrow some money for a card from Fanny.