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diff --git a/old/68682-0.txt b/old/68682-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index ca3426d..0000000 --- a/old/68682-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6386 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Charles Dickens, by G. K. Chesterton - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Charles Dickens - A critical study - -Author: G. K. Chesterton - -Release Date: August 4, 2022 [eBook #68682] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Tim Lindell, Charlie Howard, and the Online Distributed - Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was - produced from images generously made available by The - Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHARLES DICKENS *** - - - - - -CHARLES DICKENS - - - - - CHARLES DICKENS - - A CRITICAL STUDY - - - BY - G. K. CHESTERTON - - Author of Varied Types, Heretics, Etc. - - - NEW YORK - DODD MEAD & COMPANY - 1911 - - - - - COPYRIGHT, 1906, BY - DODD, MEAD & COMPANY - - ❦ - - _First Edition Published in September, 1906_ - - - - - To - RHODA BASTABLE - - - - -CONTENTS - - - CHAPTER I - PAGE - THE DICKENS PERIOD 1 - - - CHAPTER II - - THE BOYHOOD OF DICKENS 24 - - - CHAPTER III - - THE YOUTH OF DICKENS 43 - - - CHAPTER IV - - “THE PICKWICK PAPERS” 71 - - - CHAPTER V - - THE GREAT POPULARITY 100 - - - CHAPTER VI - - DICKENS AND AMERICA 127 - - - CHAPTER VII - - DICKENS AND CHRISTMAS 155 - - - CHAPTER VIII - - THE TIME OF TRANSITION 181 - - - CHAPTER IX - - LATER LIFE AND WORKS 211 - - - CHAPTER X - - THE GREAT DICKENS CHARACTERS 244 - - - CHAPTER XI - - ON THE ALLEGED OPTIMISM OF DICKENS 266 - - - CHAPTER XII - - A NOTE ON THE FUTURE OF DICKENS 291 - - - - -CHAPTER I - -THE DICKENS PERIOD - - -Much of our modern difficulty, in religion and other things, arises -merely from this, that we confuse the word “indefinable” with the word -“vague.” If some one speaks of a spiritual fact as “indefinable” we -promptly picture something misty, a cloud with indeterminate edges. -But this is an error even in common-place logic. The thing that cannot -be defined is the first thing; the primary fact. It is our arms and -legs, our pots and pans, that are indefinable. The indefinable is the -indisputable. The man next door is indefinable, because he is too -actual to be defined. And there are some to whom spiritual things have -the same fierce and practical proximity; some to whom God is too actual -to be defined. - -But there is a third class of primary terms. There are popular -expressions which every one uses and no one can explain; which the wise -man will accept and reverence, as he reverences desire or darkness -or any elemental thing. The prigs of the debating club will demand -that he should define his terms. And being a wise man he will flatly -refuse. This first inexplicable term is the most important term of all. -The word that has no definition is the word that has no substitute. -If a man falls back again and again on some such word as “vulgar” or -“manly” do not suppose that the word means nothing because he cannot -say what it means. If he could say what the word means he would say -what it means instead of saying the word. When the Game Chicken (that -fine thinker) kept on saying to Mr. Toots, “It’s mean. That’s what -it is--it’s mean,” he was using language in the wisest possible way. -For what else could he say? There is no word for mean except mean. A -man must be very mean himself before he comes to defining meanness. -Precisely because the word is indefinable, the word is indispensable. - -In everyday talk, or in any of our journals, we may find the loose -but important phrase, “Why have we no great men to-day? Why have we -no great men like Thackeray, or Carlyle, or Dickens?” Do not let us -dismiss this expression, because it appears loose or arbitrary. “Great” -does mean something, and the test of its actuality is to be found by -noting how instinctively and decisively we do apply it to some men and -not to others; above all how instinctively and decisively we do apply -it to four or five men in the Victorian era, four or five men of whom -Dickens was not the least. The term is found to fit a definite thing. -Whatever the word “great” means, Dickens was what it means. Even the -fastidious and unhappy who cannot read his books without a continuous -critical exasperation, would use the word of him without stopping to -think. They feel that Dickens is a great writer even if he is not a -good writer. He is treated as a classic; that is, as a king who may now -be deserted, but who cannot now be dethroned. The atmosphere of this -word clings to him; and the curious thing is that we cannot get it to -cling to any of the men of our own generation. “Great” is the first -adjective which the most supercilious modern critic would apply to -Dickens. And “great” is the last adjective that the most supercilious -modern critic would apply to himself. We dare not claim to be great -men, even when we claim to be superior to them. - -Is there, then, any vital meaning in this idea of “greatness” or in -our laments over its absence in our own time? Some people say, indeed, -that this sense of mass is but a mirage of distance, and that men -always think dead men great and live men small. They seem to think that -the law of perspective in the mental world is the precise opposite -to the law of perspective in the physical world. They think that -figures grow larger as they walk away. But this theory cannot be made -to correspond with the facts. We do not lack great men in our own day -because we decline to look for them in our own day; on the contrary, -we are looking for them all day long. We are not, as a matter of fact, -mere examples of those who stone the prophets and leave it to their -posterity to build their sepulchres. If the world would only produce -our perfect prophet, solemn, searching, universal, nothing would give -us keener pleasure than to build his sepulchre. In our eagerness we -might even bury him alive. Nor is it true that the great men of the -Victorian era were not called great in their own time. By many they -were called great from the first. Charlotte Brontë held this heroic -language about Thackeray. Ruskin held it about Carlyle. A definite -school regarded Dickens as a great man from the first days of his fame: -Dickens certainly belonged to this school. - -In reply to this question, “Why have we no great men to-day?” many -modern explanations are offered. Advertisement, cigarette-smoking, the -decay of religion, the decay of agriculture, too much humanitarianism, -too little humanitarianism, the fact that people are educated -insufficiently, the fact that they are educated at all, all these -are reasons given. If I give my own explanation, it is not for its -intrinsic value; it is because my answer to the question, “Why have -we no great men?” is a short way of stating the deepest and most -catastrophic difference between the age in which we live and the early -nineteenth century; the age under the shadow of the French Revolution, -the age in which Dickens was born. - -The soundest of the Dickens critics, a man of genius, Mr. George -Gissing, opens his criticism by remarking that the world in which -Dickens grew up was a hard and cruel world. He notes its gross feeding, -its fierce sports, its fighting and foul humour, and all this he -summarizes in the words hard and cruel. It is curious how different are -the impressions of men. To me this old English world seems infinitely -less hard and cruel than the world described in Gissing’s own novels. -Coarse external customs are merely relative, and easily assimilated. -A man soon learnt to harden his hands and harden his head. Faced with -the world of Gissing, he can do little but harden his heart. But the -fundamental difference between the beginning of the nineteenth century -and the end of it is a difference simple but enormous. The first -period was full of evil things, but it was full of hope. The second -period, the _fin de siècle_, was even full (in some sense) of good -things. But it was occupied in asking what was the good of good things. -Joy itself became joyless; and the fighting of Cobbett was happier than -the feasting of Walter Pater. The men of Cobbett’s day were sturdy -enough to endure and inflict brutality; but they were also sturdy -enough to alter it. This “hard and cruel” age was, after all, the age -of reform. The gibbet stood up black above them; but it was black -against the dawn. - -This dawn, against which the gibbet and all the old cruelties stood -out so black and clear, was the developing idea of liberalism, the -French Revolution. It was a clear and a happy philosophy. And only -against such philosophies do evils appear evident at all. The optimist -is a better reformer than the pessimist; and the man who believes life -to be excellent is the man who alters it most. It seems a paradox, -yet the reason of it is very plain. The pessimist can be enraged at -evil. But only the optimist can be surprised at it. From the reformer -is required a simplicity of surprise. He must have the faculty of a -violent and virgin astonishment. It is not enough that he should think -injustice distressing; he must think injustice _absurd_, an anomaly in -existence, a matter less for tears than for a shattering laughter. On -the other hand, the pessimists at the end of the century could hardly -curse even the blackest thing; for they could hardly see it against -its black and eternal background. Nothing was bad, because everything -was bad. Life in prison was infamous--like life anywhere else. The -fires of persecution were vile--like the stars. We perpetually find -this paradox of a contented discontent. Dr. Johnson takes too sad a -view of humanity, but he is also too satisfied a Conservative. Rousseau -takes too rosy a view of humanity, but he causes a revolution. Swift -is angry, but a Tory. Shelley is happy, and a rebel. Dickens, the -optimist, satirizes the Fleet, and the Fleet is gone. Gissing, the -pessimist, satirizes Suburbia, and Suburbia remains. - -Mr. Gissing’s error, then, about the early Dickens period we may -put thus: in calling it hard and cruel he omits the wind of hope -and humanity that was blowing through it. It may have been full of -inhuman institutions, but it was full of humanitarian people. And this -humanitarianism was very much the better (in my view) because it was a -rough and even rowdy humanitarianism. It was free from all the faults -that cling to the name. It was, if you will, a coarse humanitarianism. -It was a shouting, fighting, drinking philanthropy--a noble thing. But, -in any case, this atmosphere was the atmosphere of the Revolution; and -its main idea was the idea of human equality. I am not concerned here -to defend the egalitarian idea against the solemn and babyish attacks -made upon it by the rich and learned of to-day. I am merely concerned -to state one of its practical consequences. One of the actual and -certain consequences of the idea that all men are equal is immediately -to produce very great men. I would say superior men, only that the hero -thinks of himself as great, but not as superior. This has been hidden -from us of late by a foolish worship of sinister and exceptional men, -men without comradeship, or any infectious virtue. This type of Cæsar -does exist. There is a great man who makes every man feel small. But -the real great man is the man who makes every man feel great. - -The spirit of the early century produced great men, because it believed -that men were great. It made strong men by encouraging weak men. -Its education, its public habits, its rhetoric, were all addressed -towards encouraging the greatness in everybody. And by encouraging the -greatness in everybody, it naturally encouraged superlative greatness -in some. Superiority came out of the high rapture of equality. It is -precisely in this sort of passionate unconsciousness and bewildering -community of thought that men do become more than themselves. No man -by taking thought can add one cubit to his stature; but a man may add -many cubits to his stature by not taking thought. The best men of the -Revolution were simply common men at their best. This is why our age -can never understand Napoleon. Because he was something great and -triumphant, we suppose that he must have been something extraordinary, -something inhuman. Some say he was the Devil; some say he was the -Superhuman. Was he a very, very bad man? Was he a good man with some -greater moral code? We strive in vain to invent the mysteries behind -that immortal mask of brass. The modern world with all its subtleness -will never guess his strange secret; for his strange secret was that he -was very like other people. - -And almost without exception all the great men have come out of this -atmosphere of equality. Great men may make despotisms; but democracies -make great men. The other main factory of heroes besides a revolution -is a religion. And a religion again, is a thing which, by its nature, -does not think of men as more or less valuable, but of men as all -intensely and painfully valuable, a democracy of eternal danger. For -religion all men are equal, as all pennies are equal, because the only -value in any of them is that they bear the image of the King. This -fact has been quite insufficiently observed in the study of religious -heroes. Piety produces intellectual greatness precisely because -piety in itself is quite indifferent to intellectual greatness. The -strength of Cromwell was that he cared for religion. But the strength -of religion was that it did not care for Cromwell; did not care for -him, that is, any more than for anybody else. He and his footman were -equally welcomed to warm places in the hospitality of hell. It has -often been said, very truly, that religion is the thing that makes the -ordinary man feel extraordinary; it is an equally important truth that -religion is the thing that makes the extraordinary man feel ordinary. - -Carlyle killed the heroes; there have been none since his time. He -killed the heroic (which he sincerely loved) by forcing upon each man -this question: “Am I strong or weak?” To which the answer from any -honest man whatever (yes, from Cæsar or Bismarck) would certainly -be “weak.” He asked for candidates for a definite aristocracy, for -men who should hold themselves consciously above their fellows. He -advertised for them, so to speak; he promised them glory; he promised -them omnipotence. They have not appeared yet. They never will. For the -real heroes of whom he wrote had appeared out of an ecstacy of the -ordinary. I have already instanced such a case as Cromwell. But there -is no need to go through all the great men of Carlyle. Carlyle himself -was as great as any of them; and if ever there was a typical child of -the French Revolution, it was he. He began with the wildest hopes from -the Reform Bill, and although he soured afterwards, he had been made -and moulded by those hopes. He was disappointed with Equality; but -Equality was not disappointed with him. Equality is justified of all -her children. - -But we, in the post-Carlylean period, have become fastidious about -great men. Every man examines himself, every man examines his -neighbours, to see whether they or he quite come up to the exact line -of greatness. The answer is, naturally, “No.” And many a man calls -himself contentedly “a minor poet” who would then have been inspired -to be a major prophet. We are hard to please and of little faith. We -can hardly believe that there is such a thing as a great man. They -could hardly believe there was such a thing as a small one. But we are -always praying that our eyes may behold greatness, instead of praying -that our hearts may be filled with it. Thus, for instance, the Liberal -party (to which I belong) was, in its period of exile, always saying, -“O for a Gladstone!” and such things. We were always asking that it -might be strengthened from above, instead of ourselves strengthening it -from below, with our hope and our anger and our youth. Every man was -waiting for a leader. Every man ought to be waiting for a chance to -lead. If a god does come upon the earth, he will descend at the sight -of the brave. Our protestations and litanies are of no avail; our new -moons and our sabbaths are an abomination. The great man will come when -all of us are feeling great, not when all of us are feeling small. He -will ride in at some splendid moment when we all feel that we could do -without him. - -We are then able to answer in some manner the question, “Why have we no -great men?” We have no great men chiefly because we are always looking -for them. We are connoisseurs of greatness, and connoisseurs can never -be great; we are fastidious, that is, we are small. When Diogenes went -about with a lantern looking for an honest man, I am afraid he had -very little time to be honest himself. And when anybody goes about on -his hands and knees looking for a great man to worship, he is making -sure that one man at any rate shall not be great. Now, the error of -Diogenes is evident. The error of Diogenes lay in the fact that he -omitted to notice that every man is both an honest man and a dishonest -man. Diogenes looked for his honest man inside every crypt and cavern; -but he never thought of looking inside the thief. And that is where -the Founder of Christianity found the honest man; He found him on a -gibbet and promised him Paradise. Just as Christianity looked for the -honest man inside the thief, democracy looked for the wise man inside -the fool. It encouraged the fool to be wise. We can call this thing -sometimes optimism, sometimes equality; the nearest name for it is -encouragement. It had its exaggerations--failure to understand original -sin, notions that education would make all men good, the childlike yet -pedantic philosophies of human perfectibility. But the whole was full -of a faith in the infinity of human souls, which is in itself not only -Christian but orthodox; and this we have lost amid the limitations of a -pessimistic science. Christianity said that any man could be a saint if -he chose; democracy, that any man could be a citizen if he chose. The -note of the last few decades in art and ethics has been that a man is -stamped with an irrevocable psychology, and is cramped for perpetuity -in the prison of his skull. It was a world that expected everything of -everybody. It was a world that encouraged anybody to be anything. And -in England and literature its living expression was Dickens. - -We shall consider Dickens in many other capacities, but let us put this -one first. He was the voice in England of this humane intoxication -and expansion, this encouraging of anybody to be anything. His best -books are a carnival of liberty, and there is more of the real spirit -of the French Revolution in “Nicholas Nickleby” than in “The Tale -of Two Cities.” His work has the great glory of the Revolution, the -bidding of every man to be himself; it has also the revolutionary -deficiency; it seems to think that this mere emancipation is enough. -No man _encouraged_ his characters so much as Dickens. “I am an -affectionate father,” he says, “to every child of my fancy.” He was -not only an affectionate father, he was an everindulgent father. The -children of his fancy are spoilt children. They shake the house like -heavy and shouting schoolboys; they smash the story to pieces like -so much furniture. When we moderns write stories our characters are -better controlled. But, alas! our characters are rather easier to -control. We are in no danger from the gigantic gambols of creatures -like Mantalini and Micawber. We are in no danger of giving our readers -too much Weller or Wegg. We have not got it to give. When we experience -the ungovernable sense of life which goes along with the old Dickens -sense of liberty, we experience the best of the revolution. We are -filled with the first of all democratic doctrines, that all men are -interesting; Dickens tried to make some of his people appear dull -people, but he could not keep them dull. He could not make a monotonous -man. The bores in his books are brighter than the wits in other books. - -I have put this position first for a defined reason. It is useless -for us to attempt to imagine Dickens and his life unless we are able -at least to imagine this old atmosphere of a democratic optimism--a -confidence in common men. Dickens depends upon such a comprehension in -a rather unusual manner, a manner worth explanation, or at least remark. - -The disadvantage under which Dickens has fallen, both as an artist and -a moralist, is very plain. His misfortune is that neither of the two -last movements in literary criticism has done him any good. He has -suffered alike from his enemies, and from the enemies of his enemies. -The facts to which I refer are familiar. When the world first awoke -from the mere hypnotism of Dickens, from the direct tyranny of his -temperament, there was, of course, a reaction. At the head of it came -the Realists, with their documents, like Miss Flite. They declared -that scenes and types in Dickens were wholly impossible (in which they -were perfectly right), and on this rather paradoxical ground objected -to them as literature. They were not “like life,” and there, they -thought, was an end of the matter. The Realist for a time prevailed. -But Realists did not enjoy their victory (if they enjoyed anything) -very long. A more symbolic school of criticism soon arose. Men saw that -it was necessary to give a much deeper and more delicate meaning to the -expression “like life.” Streets are not life, cities and civilizations -are not life, faces even and voices are not life itself. Life is -within, and no man hath seen it at any time. As for our meals, and our -manners, and our daily dress, these are things exactly like sonnets; -they are random symbols of the soul. One man tries to express himself -in books, another in boots; both probably fail. Our solid houses and -square meals are in the strict sense fiction. They are things made up -to typify our thoughts. The coat a man wears may be wholly fictitious; -the movement of his hands may be quite unlike life. - -This much the intelligence of men soon perceived. And by this much -Dickens’s fame should have greatly profited. For Dickens is “like -life” in the truer sense, in the sense that he is akin to the living -principle in us and in the universe; he is like life, at least in this -detail, that he is alive. His art is like life, because, like life, -it cares for nothing outside itself, and goes on its way rejoicing. -Both produce monsters with a kind of carelessness, like enormous -by-products; life producing the rhinoceros, and art Mr. Bunsby. Art -indeed copies life in not copying life, for life copies nothing. -Dickens’s art is like life because, like life, it is irresponsible, -because, like life, it is incredible. - -Yet the return of this realization has not greatly profited Dickens, -the return of romance has been almost useless to this great romantic. -He has gained as little from the fall of the Realists as from their -triumph; there has been a revolution, there has been a counter -revolution, there has been no restoration. And the reason of this -brings us back to that atmosphere of popular optimism of which I -spoke. And the shortest way of expressing the more recent neglect of -Dickens is to say that for our time and taste he exaggerates the wrong -thing. - -Exaggeration is the definition of Art. That both Dickens and the -moderns understood Art is, in its inmost nature, fantastic. Time -brings queer revenges, and while the Realists were yet living, the -art of Dickens was justified by Aubrey Beardsley. But men like Aubrey -Beardsley were allowed to be fantastic, because the mood which they -overstrained and overstated was a mood which their period understood. -Dickens overstrains and overstates a mood our period does not -understand. The truth he exaggerates is exactly this old Revolution -sense of infinite opportunity and boisterous brotherhood. And we resent -his undue sense of it, because we ourselves have not even a due sense -of it. We feel troubled with too much where we have too little; we wish -he would keep it within bounds. For we are all exact and scientific -on the subjects we do not care about. We all immediately detect -exaggeration in an exposition of Mormonism or a patriotic speech from -Paraguay. We all require sobriety on the subject of the sea serpent. -But the moment we begin to believe a thing ourselves, that moment we -begin easily to overstate it; and the moment our souls become serious, -our words become a little wild. And certain moderns are thus placed -towards exaggeration. They permit any writer to emphasize doubts, -for instance, for doubts are their religion, but they permit no man -to emphasize dogmas. If a man be the mildest Christian, they smell -“cant”; but he can be a raving windmill of pessimism, and they call -it “temperament.” If a moralist paints a wild picture of immorality, -they doubt its truth, they say that devils are not so black as they are -painted. But if a pessimist paints a wild picture of melancholy, they -accept the whole horrible psychology, and they never ask if devils are -as blue as they are painted. - -It is evident, in short, why even those who admire exaggeration do -not admire Dickens. He is exaggerating the wrong thing. They know -what it is to feel a sadness so strange and deep that only impossible -characters can express it: they do not know what it is to feel a joy -so vital and violent that only impossible characters can express -that. They know that the soul can be so sad as to dream naturally of -the blue faces of the corpses of Baudelaire: they do not know that -the soul can be so cheerful as to dream naturally of the blue face -of Major Bagstock. They know that there is a point of depression at -which one believes in Tintagiles: they do not know that there is a -point of exhilaration at which one believes in Mr. Wegg. To them the -impossibilities of Dickens seem much more impossible than they really -are, because they are already attuned to the opposite impossibilities -of Maeterlinck. For every mood there is an appropriate impossibility--a -decent and tactful impossibility--fitted to the frame of mind. Every -train of thought may end in an ecstasy, and all roads lead to Elfland. -But few now walk far enough along the street of Dickens to find the -place where the cockney villas grow so comic that they become poetical. -People do not know how far mere good spirits will go. For instance, -we never think (as the old folklore did) of good spirits reaching to -the spiritual world. We see this in the complete absence from modern, -popular supernaturalism of the old popular mirth. We hear plenty -to-day of the wisdom of the spiritual world; but we do not hear, as -our fathers did, of the folly of the spiritual world, of the tricks of -the gods, and the jokes of the patron saints. Our popular tales tell -us of a man who is so wise that he touches the supernatural, like Dr. -Nikola; but they never tell us (like the popular tales of the past) of -a man who was so silly that he touched the supernatural, like Bottom -the Weaver. We do not understand the dark and transcendental sympathy -between fairies and fools. We understand a devout occultism, an evil -occultism, a tragic occultism, but a farcical occultism is beyond us. -Yet a farcical occultism is the very essence of “The Midsummer Night’s -Dream.” It is also the right and credible essence of “The Christmas -Carol.” Whether we understand it depends upon whether we can understand -that exhilaration is not a physical accident, but a mystical fact; that -exhilaration can be infinite, like sorrow; that a joke can be so big -that it breaks the roof of the stars. By simply going on being absurd, -a thing can become godlike; there is but one step from the ridiculous -to the sublime. - -Dickens was great because he was immoderately possessed with all this; -if we are to understand him at all we must also be moderately possessed -with it. We must understand this old limitless hilarity and human -confidence, at least enough to be able to endure it when it is pushed -a great deal too far. For Dickens did push it too far; he did push the -hilarity to the point of incredible character-drawing; he did push the -human confidence to the point of an unconvincing sentimentalism. You -can trace, if you will, the revolutionary joy till it reaches the -incredible Sapsea epitaph; you can trace the revolutionary hope till it -reaches the repentance of Dombey. There is plenty to carp at in this -man if you are inclined to carp; you may easily find him vulgar if you -cannot see that he is divine; and if you cannot laugh with Dickens, -undoubtedly you can laugh at him. - -I believe myself that this braver world of his will certainly return; -for I believe that it is bound up with realities, like morning and -the spring. But for those who beyond remedy regard it as an error, -I put this appeal before any other observations on Dickens. First -let us sympathize, if only for an instant, with the hopes of the -Dickens period, with that cheerful trouble of change. If democracy has -disappointed you, do not think of it as a burst bubble, but at least -as a broken heart, an old love-affair. Do not sneer at the time when -the creed of humanity was on its honeymoon; treat it with the dreadful -reverence that is due to youth. For you, perhaps, a drearier philosophy -has covered and eclipsed the earth. The fierce poet of the Middle Ages -wrote, “Abandon hope all ye who enter here” over the gates of the lower -world. The emancipated poets of to-day have written it over the gates -of this world. But if we are to understand the story which follows, -we must erase that apocalyptic writing, if only for an hour. We must -recreate the faith of our fathers, if only as an artistic atmosphere. -If, then, you are a pessimist, in reading this story, forego for a -little the pleasures of pessimism. Dream for one mad moment that the -grass is green. Unlearn that sinister learning that you think so clear; -deny that deadly knowledge that you think you know. Surrender the very -flower of your culture; give up the very jewel of your pride; abandon -hopelessness, all ye who enter here. - - - - -CHAPTER II - -THE BOYHOOD OF DICKENS - - -Charles Dickens was born at Landport, in Portsea, on February 7, 1812. -His father was a clerk in the Navy Pay-office, and was temporarily -on duty in the neighbourhood. Very soon after the birth of Charles -Dickens, however, the family moved for a short period to Norfolk -Street, Bloomsbury, and then for a long period to Chatham, which thus -became the real home, and for all serious purposes, the native place of -Dickens. The whole story of his life moves like a Canterbury pilgrimage -along the great roads of Kent. - -John Dickens, his father, was, as stated, a clerk; but such mere terms -of trade tell us little of the tone or status of a family. Browning’s -father (to take an instance at random) would also be described as a -clerk and a man of the middle class; but the Browning family and the -Dickens family have the colour of two different civilizations. The -difference cannot be conveyed merely by saying that Browning stood -many strata above Dickens. It must also be conveyed that Browning -belonged to that section of the middle class which tends (in the small -social sense) to rise; the Dickenses to that section which tends in -the same sense to fall. If Browning had not been a poet, he would have -been a better clerk than his father, and his son probably a better -and richer clerk than he. But if they had not been lifted in the air -by the enormous accident of a man of genius, the Dickenses, I fancy -would have appeared in poorer and poorer places, as inventory clerks, -as caretakers, as addressers of envelopes, until they melted into the -masses of the poor. - -Yet at the time of Dickens’s birth and childhood this weakness in their -worldly destiny was in no way apparent; especially it was not apparent -to the little Charles himself. He was born and grew up in a paradise of -small prosperity. He fell into the family, so to speak, during one of -its comfortable periods, and he never in those early days thought of -himself as anything but as a comfortable middle-class child, the son -of a comfortable middle-class man. The father whom he found provided -for him, was one from whom comfort drew forth his most pleasant and -reassuring qualities, though not perhaps his most interesting and -peculiar. John Dickens seemed, most probably, a hearty and kindly -character, a little florid of speech, a little careless of duty in -some details, notably in the detail of education. His neglect of his -son’s mental training in later and more trying times was a piece of -unconscious selfishness which remained a little acrimoniously in his -son’s mind through life. But even in this earlier and easier period -what records there are of John Dickens give out the air of a somewhat -idle and irresponsible fatherhood. He exhibited towards his son that -contradiction in conduct which is always shown by the too thoughtless -parent to the too thoughtful child. He contrived at once to neglect his -mind, and also to over-stimulate it. - -There are many recorded tales and traits of the author’s infancy, but -one small fact seems to me more than any other to strike the note -and give the key to his whole strange character. His father found it -more amusing to be an audience than to be an instructor; and instead -of giving the child intellectual pleasure, called upon him, almost -before he was out of petticoats, to provide it. Some of the earliest -glimpses we have of Charles Dickens show him to us perched on some -chair or table singing comic songs in an atmosphere of perpetual -applause. So, almost as soon as he can toddle, he steps into the -glare of the footlights. He never stepped out of it until he died. He -was a good man, as men go in this bewildering world of ours, brave, -transparent, tender-hearted, scrupulously independent and honourable; -he was not a man whose weaknesses should be spoken of without some -delicacy and doubt. But there did mingle with his merits all his life -this theatrical quality, this atmosphere of being shown off--a sort -of hilarious self-consciousness. His literary life was a triumphal -procession; he died drunken with glory. And behind all this nine -years’ wonder that filled the world, behind his gigantic tours and his -ten thousand editions, the crowded lectures and the crashing brass, -behind all the thing we really see is the flushed face of a little boy -singing music-hall songs to a circle of aunts and uncles. And this -precocious pleasure explains much, too, in the moral way. Dickens had -all his life the faults of the little boy who is kept up too late at -night. The boy in such a case exhibits a psychological paradox; he is -a little too irritable because he is a little too happy. Dickens was -always a little too irritable because he was a little too happy. Like -the over-wrought child in society, he was splendidly sociable, and yet -suddenly quarrelsome. In all the practical relations of his life he -was what the child is in the last hours of an evening party, genuinely -delighted, genuinely delightful, genuinely affectionate and happy, and -yet in some strange way fundamentally exasperated and dangerously close -to tears. - -There was another touch about the boy which made his case more -peculiar, and perhaps his intelligence more fervid; the touch of -ill-health. It could not be called more than a touch, for he suffered -from no formidable malady and could always through life endure a -great degree of exertion even if it was only the exertion of walking -violently all night. Still the streak of sickness was sufficient to -take him out of the common unconscious life of the community of boys; -and for good or evil that withdrawal is always a matter of deadly -importance to the mind. He was thrown back perpetually upon the -pleasures of the intelligence, and these began to burn in his head -like a pent and painful furnace. In his own unvaryingly vivid way he -has described how he crawled up into an unconsidered garret, and there -found, in a dusty heap, the undying literature of England. The books -he mentions chiefly are “Humphrey Clinker” and “Tom Jones.” When he -opened those two books in the garret he caught hold of the only past -with which he is at all connected, the great comic writers of England -of whom he was destined to be the last. - -It must be remembered (as I have suggested before) that there was -something about the county in which he lived, and the great roads along -which he travelled that sympathized with and stimulated his pleasure -in this old picaresque literature. The groups that came along the -road, that passed through his town and out of it, were of the motley -laughable type that tumbled into ditches or beat down the doors of -taverns under the escort of Smollett and Fielding. In our time the -main roads of Kent have upon them very often a perpetual procession -of tramps and tinkers unknown on the quiet hills of Sussex; and it -may have been so also in Dickens’s boyhood. In his neighbourhood -were definite memorials of yet older and yet greater English comedy. -From the height of Gad’s-hill at which he stared unceasingly there -looked down upon him the monstrous ghost of Falstaff, Falstaff who -might well have been the spiritual father of all Dickens’s adorable -knaves, Falstaff the great mountain of English laughter and English -sentimentalism, the great, healthy, humane English humbug, not to be -matched among the nations. - -At this eminence of Gad’s-hill Dickens used to stare even as a boy with -the steady purpose of some day making it his own. It is characteristic -of the consistency which underlies the superficially erratic career of -Dickens that he actually did live to make it his own. The truth is that -he was a precocious child, precocious not only on the more poetical -but on the more prosaic side of life. He was ambitious as well as -enthusiastic. No one can ever know what visions they were that crowded -into the head of the clever little brat as he ran about the streets -of Chatham or stood glowering at Gad’s-hill. But I think that quite -mundane visions had a very considerable share in the matter. He longed -to go to school (a strange wish), to go to college, to make a name, nor -did he merely aspire to these things; the great number of them he also -expected. He regarded himself as a child of good position just about -to enter on a life of good luck. He thought his home and family a very -good spring-board or jumping-off place from which to fling himself to -the positions which he desired to reach. And almost as he was about -to spring the whole structure broke under him, and he and all that -belonged to him disappeared into a darkness far below. - -Everything had been struck down as with the finality of a thunder-bolt. -His lordly father was a bankrupt, and in the Marshalsea prison. His -mother was in a mean home in the north of London, wildly proclaiming -herself the principal of a girl’s school, a girl’s school to which -nobody would go. And he himself, the conqueror of the world and -the prospective purchaser of Gads-hill, passed some distracted and -bewildering days in pawning the household necessities to Fagins in foul -shops, and then found himself somehow or other one of a row of ragged -boys in a great dreary factory, pasting the same kinds of labels on to -the same kinds of blacking bottles from morning till night. - -Although it seemed sudden enough to him, the disintegration had, -as a matter of fact, of course, been going on for a long time. He -had only heard from his father dark and melodramatic allusions to a -“deed” which, from the way it was mentioned, might have been a claim -to the crown or a compact with the devil, but which was in truth an -unsuccessful documentary attempt on the part of John Dickens to come to -a composition with his creditors. And now, in the lurid light of his -sunset, the character of John Dickens began to take on those purple -colours which have made him under another name absurd and immortal. -It required a tragedy to bring out this man’s comedy. So long as John -Dickens was in easy circumstances, he seemed only an easy man, a -little long and luxuriant in his phrases, a little careless in his -business routine. He seemed only a wordy man, who lived on bread and -beef like his neighbours; but as bread and beef were successively -taken away from him, it was discovered that he lived on words. For -him to be involved in a calamity only meant to be cast for the first -part in a tragedy. For him blank ruin was only a subject for blank -verse. Henceforth we feel scarcely inclined to call him John Dickens -at all; we feel inclined to call him by the name through which his son -celebrated this preposterous and sublime victory of the human spirit -over circumstances. Dickens, in “David Copperfield,” called him Wilkins -Micawber. In his personal correspondence he called him the Prodigal -Father. - -Young Charles had been hurriedly flung into the factory by the more or -less careless good-nature of James Lamert, a relation of his mother’s; -it was a blacking factory, supposed to be run as a rival to Warren’s by -another and “original” Warren, both practically conducted by another -of the Lamerts. It was situated near Hungerford Market. Dickens worked -there drearily, like one stunned with disappointment. To a child -excessively intellectualized, and at this time, I fear, excessively -egotistical, the coarseness of the whole thing--the work, the rooms, -the boys, the language--was a sort of bestial nightmare. Not only did -he scarcely speak of it then, but he scarcely spoke of it afterwards. -Years later, in the fulness of his fame, he heard from Forster that a -man had spoken of knowing him. On hearing the name, he somewhat curtly -acknowledged it, and spoke of having seen the man once. Forster, in his -innocence, answered that the man said he had seen Dickens many times in -a factory by Hungerford Market. Dickens was suddenly struck with a long -and extraordinary silence. Then he invited Forster, as his best friend, -to a particular interview, and, with every appearance of difficulty and -distress, told him the whole story for the first and the last time. -A long while after that he told the world some part of the matter in -the account of Murdstone and Grinby’s in “David Copperfield.” He never -spoke of the whole experience except once or twice, and he never spoke -of it otherwise than as a man might speak of hell. - -It need not be suggested, I think, that this agony in the child was -exaggerated by the man. It is true that he was not incapable of the -vice of exaggeration, if it be a vice. There was about him much vanity -and a certain virulence in his version of many things. Upon the -whole, indeed, it would hardly be too much to say that he would have -exaggerated any sorrow he talked about. But this was a sorrow with a -very strange position in Dickens’s life; it was a sorrow he did not -talk about. Upon this particular dark spot he kept a sort of deadly -silence for twenty years. An accident revealed part of the truth to the -dearest of all his friends. He then told the whole truth to the dearest -of all his friends. He never told anybody else. I do not think that -this arose from any social sense of disgrace; if he had it slightly -at the time, he was far too self-satisfied a man to have taken it -seriously in after life. I really think that his pain at this time was -so real and ugly that the thought of it filled him with that sort of -impersonal but unbearable shame with which we are filled, for instance, -by the notion of physical torture, of something that humiliates -humanity. He felt that such agony was something obscene. Moreover there -are two other good reasons for thinking that his sense of hopelessness -was very genuine. First of all, this starless outlook is common in the -calamities of boyhood. The bitterness of boyish distresses does not lie -in the fact that they are large; it lies in the fact that we do not -know that they are small. About any early disaster there is a dreadful -finality; a lost child can suffer like a lost soul. - -It is currently said that hope goes with youth, and lends to youth its -wings of a butterfly; but I fancy that hope is the last gift given to -man, and the only gift not given to youth. Youth is pre-eminently the -period in which a man can be lyric, fanatical, poetic; but youth is -the period in which a man can be hopeless. The end of every episode is -the end of the world. But the power of hoping through everything, the -knowledge that the soul survives its adventures, that great inspiration -comes to the middle-aged; God has kept that good wine until now. It is -from the backs of the elderly gentlemen that the wings of the butterfly -should burst. There is nothing that so much mystifies the young as -the consistent frivolity of the old. They have discovered their -indestructibility. They are in their second and clearer childhood, and -there is a meaning in the merriment of their eyes. They have seen the -end of the End of the World. - -First, then, the desolate finality of Dickens’s childish mood makes me -think it was a real one. And there is another thing to be remembered. -Dickens was not a saintly child after the style of Little Dorrit or -Little Nell. He had not, at this time at any rate, set his heart wholly -upon higher things, even upon things such as personal tenderness -or loyalty. He had been, and was, unless I am very much mistaken, -sincerely, stubbornly, bitterly ambitious. He had, I fancy, a fairly -clear idea previous to the downfall of all his family’s hopes of what -he wanted to do in the world, and of the mark that he meant to make -there. In no dishonourable sense, but still in a definite sense he -might, in early life, be called worldly; and the children of this world -are in their generation infinitely more sensitive than the children -of light. A saint after repentance will forgive himself for a sin; -a man about town will never forgive himself for a _faux pas_. There -are ways of getting absolved for murder; there are no ways of getting -absolved for upsetting the soup. This thin-skinned quality in all very -mundane people is a thing too little remembered; and it must not be -wholly forgotten in connection with a clever, restless lad who dreamed -of a destiny. That part of his distress which concerned himself and -his social standing was among the other parts of it the least noble; -but perhaps it was the most painful. For pride is not only (as the -modern world fails to understand) a sin to be condemned; it is also -(as it understands even less) a weakness to be very much commiserated. -A very vitalizing touch is given in one of his own reminiscences. His -most unendurable moment did not come in any bullying in the factory -or any famine in the streets. It came when he went to see his sister -Fanny take a prize at the Royal Academy of Music. “I could not bear -to think of myself--beyond the reach of all such honourable emulation -and success. The tears ran down my face. I felt as if my heart were -rent. I prayed when I went to bed that night to be lifted out of the -humiliation and neglect in which I was. I never had suffered so much -before. There was no envy in this.” I do not think that there was, -though the poor little wretch could hardly have been blamed if there -had been. There was only a furious sense of frustration; a spirit like -a wild beast in a cage. It was only a small matter in the external and -obvious sense; it was only Dickens prevented from being Dickens. - -If we put these facts together, that the tragedy seemed final, and -that the tragedy was concerned with the supersensitive matters of the -ego and the gentleman, I think we can imagine a pretty genuine case -of internal depression. And when we add to the case of the internal -depression the case of the external oppression, the case of the -material circumstances by which he was surrounded, we have reached a -sort of midnight. All day he worked on insufficient food at a factory. -It is sufficient to say that it afterwards appeared in his works -as Murdstone and Grinby’s. At night he returned disconsolately to a -lodging-house for such lads, kept by an old lady. It is sufficient to -say that she appeared afterwards as Mrs. Pipchin. Once a week only he -saw anybody for whom he cared a straw; that was when he went to the -Marshalsea prison, and that gave his juvenile pride, half manly and -half snobbish, bitter annoyance of another kind. Add to this, finally, -that physically he was always very weak and never very well. Once he -was struck down in the middle of his work with sudden bodily pain. The -boy who worked next to him, a coarse and heavy lad named Bob Fagin, -who had often attacked Dickens on the not unreasonable ground of his -being a “gentleman,” suddenly showed that enduring sanity of compassion -which Dickens was destined to show so often in the characters of the -common and unclean. Fagin made a bed for his sick companion out of -the straw in the workroom, and filled empty blacking bottles with -hot water all day. When the evening came, and Dickens was somewhat -recovered, Bob Fagin insisted on escorting the boy home to his father. -The situation was as poignant as a sort of tragic farce. Fagin in his -wooden-headed chivalry would have died in order to take Dickens to his -family; Dickens in his bitter gentility would have died rather than -let Fagin know that his family were in the Marshalsea. So these two -young idiots tramped the tedious streets, both stubborn, both suffering -for an idea. The advantage certainly was with Fagin, who was suffering -for a Christian compassion, while Dickens was suffering for a pagan -pride. At last Dickens flung off his friend with desperate farewell -and thanks, and dashed up the steps of a strange house on the Surrey -side. He knocked and rang as Bob Fagin, his benefactor and his incubus, -disappeared round the corner. And when the servant came to open the -door, he asked, apparently with gravity, whether Mr. Robert Fagin lived -there. It is a strange touch. The immortal Dickens woke in him for an -instant in that last wild joke of that weary evening. Next morning, -however, he was again well enough to make himself ill again, and the -wheels of the great factory went on. They manufactured a number of -bottles of Warren’s Blacking, and in the course of the process they -manufactured also the greatest optimist of the nineteenth century. - -This boy who dropped down groaning at his work, who was hungry four or -five times a week, whose best feelings and worst feelings were alike -flayed alive, was the man on whom two generations of comfortable -critics have visited the complaint that his view of life was too rosy -to be anything but unreal. Afterwards, and in its proper place, I -shall speak of what is called the optimism of Dickens, and of whether -it was really too cheerful or too smooth. But this boyhood of his may -be recorded now as a mere fact. If he was too happy, this was where -he learnt it. If his school of thought was a vulgar optimism, this is -where he went to school. If he learnt to whitewash the universe, it was -in a blacking factory that he learnt it. - -As a fact, there is no shred of evidence to show that those who have -had sad experiences tend to have a sad philosophy. There are numberless -points upon which Dickens is spiritually at one with the poor, that is, -with the great mass of mankind. But there is no point in which he is -more perfectly at one with them than in showing that there is no kind -of connection between a man being unhappy and a man being pessimistic. -Sorrow and pessimism are indeed, in a sense, opposite things, since -sorrow is founded on the value of something, and pessimism upon the -value of nothing. And in practice we find that those poets or political -leaders who come from the people, and whose experiences have really -been searching and cruel, are the most sanguine people in the world. -These men out of the old agony are always optimists; they are sometimes -offensive optimists. A man like Robert Burns, whose father (like -Dickens’s father) goes bankrupt, whose whole life is a struggle against -miserable external powers and internal weaknesses yet more miserable--a -man whose life begins grey and ends black--Burns does not merely sing -about the goodness of life, he positively rants and cants about it. -Rousseau, whom all his friends and acquaintances treated almost as -badly as he treated them--Rousseau does not grow merely eloquent, he -grows gushing and sentimental, about the inherent goodness of human -nature. Charles Dickens, who was most miserable at the receptive age -when most people are most happy, is afterwards happy when all men -weep. Circumstances break men’s bones; it has never been shown that -they break men’s optimism. These great popular leaders do all kinds of -desperate things under the immediate scourge of tragedy. They become -drunkards; they become demagogues; they become morpho-maniacs. They -never become pessimists. Most unquestionably there are ragged and -unhappy men whom we could easily understand being pessimists. But as a -matter of fact they are not pessimists. Most unquestionably there are -whole dim hordes of humanity whom we should promptly pardon if they -cursed God. But they don’t. The pessimists are aristocrats like Byron; -the men who curse God are aristocrats like Swinburne. But when those -who starve and suffer speak for a moment, they do not profess merely an -optimism, they profess a cheap optimism; they are too poor to afford a -dear one. They cannot indulge in any detailed or merely logical defence -of life; that would be to delay the enjoyment of it. These higher -optimists, of whom Dickens was one, do not approve of the universe; -they do not even admire the universe; they fall in love with it. They -embrace life too closely to criticize or even to see it. Existence to -such men has the wild beauty of a woman, and those love her with most -intensity who love her with least cause. - - - - -CHAPTER III - -THE YOUTH OF DICKENS - - -There are popular phrases so picturesque that even when they are -intentionally funny they are unintentionally poetical. I remember, to -take one instance out of many, hearing a heated Secularist in Hyde Park -apply to some parson or other the exquisite expression, “a sky-pilot.” -Subsequent inquiry has taught me that the term is intended to be comic -and even contemptuous; but in that first freshness of it I went home -repeating it to myself like a new poem. Few of the pious legends have -conceived so strange and yet celestial a picture as this of the pilot -in the sky, leaning on his helm above the empty heavens, and carrying -his cargo of souls higher than the loneliest cloud. The phrase is like -a lyric of Shelley. Or, to take another instance from another language, -the French have an incomparable idiom for a boy playing truant: “Il -fait l’école buissonnière”--he goes to the bushy school, or the school -among the bushes. How admirably this accidental expression, “the -bushy school” (not to be lightly confounded with the Art School at -Bushey)--how admirably this “bushy school” expresses half the modern -notions of a more natural education! The two words express the whole -poetry of Wordsworth, the whole philosophy of Thoreau, and are quite as -good literature as either. - -Now, among a million of such scraps of inspired slang there is one -which describes a certain side of Dickens better than pages of -explanation. The phrase, appropriately enough, occurs at least once in -his works, and that on a fitting occasion. When Job Trotter is sent -by Sam on a wild chase after Mr. Perker, the solicitor, Mr. Perker’s -clerk condoles with Job upon the lateness of the hour, and the fact -that all habitable places are shut up. “My friend,” says Mr. Perker’s -clerk, “you’ve got the key of the street.” Mr. Perker’s clerk, who -was a flippant and scornful young man, may perhaps be pardoned if he -used this expression in a flippant and scornful sense; but let us -hope that Dickens did not. Let us hope that Dickens saw the strange, -yet satisfying, imaginative justice of the words; for Dickens himself -had, in the most sacred and serious sense of the term, the key of the -street. When we shut out anything, we are shut out of that thing. -When we shut out the street, we are shut out of the street. Few of -us understand the street. Even when we step into it, we step into -it doubtfully, as into a house or room of strangers. Few of us see -through the shining riddle of the street, the strange folk that belong -to the street only--the street-walker or the street arab, the nomads -who, generation after generation, have kept their ancient secrets in -the full blaze of the sun. Of the street at night many of us know even -less. The street at night is a great house locked up. But Dickens had, -if ever man had, the key of the street. His earth was the stones of the -street; his stars were the lamps of the street; his hero was the man in -the street. He could open the inmost door of his house--the door that -leads into that secret passage which is lined with houses and roofed -with stars. - -This silent transformation into a citizen of the street took place -during those dark days of boyhood, when Dickens was drudging at the -factory. Whenever he had done drudging, he had no other resource but -drifting, and he drifted over half London. He was a dreamy child, -thinking mostly of his own dreary prospects. Yet he saw and remembered -much of the streets and squares he passed. Indeed, as a matter of fact, -he went the right way to work unconsciously to do so. He did not go in -for “observation,” a priggish habit; he did not look at Charing Cross -to improve his mind or count the lamp-posts in Holborn to practise his -arithmetic. But unconsciously he made all these places the scenes of -the monstrous drama in his miserable little soul. He walked in darkness -under the lamps of Holborn, and was crucified at Charing Cross. So for -him ever afterwards these places had the beauty that only belongs to -battlefields. For our memory never fixes the facts which we have merely -observed. The only way to remember a place for ever is to live in the -place for an hour; and the only way to live in the place for an hour is -to forget the place for an hour. The undying scenes we can all see if -we shut our eyes are not the scenes that we have stared at under the -direction of guide-books; the scenes we see are the scenes at which -we did not look at all--the scenes in which we walked when we were -thinking about something else--about a sin, or a love affair, or some -childish sorrow. We can see the background now because we did not see -it then. So Dickens did not stamp these places on his mind; he stamped -his mind on these places. For him ever afterwards these streets were -mortally romantic; they were dipped in the purple dyes of youth and its -tragedy, and rich with irrevocable sunsets. - -Herein is the whole secret of that eerie realism with which Dickens -could always vitalize some dark or dull corner of London. There are -details in the Dickens descriptions--a window, or a railing, or the -keyhole of a door--which he endows with demoniac life. The things seem -more actual than things really are. Indeed, that degree of realism does -not exist in reality: it is the unbearable realism of a dream. And this -kind of realism can only be gained by walking dreamily in a place; it -cannot be gained by walking observantly. Dickens himself has given a -perfect instance of how these nightmare minutiæ grew upon him in his -trance of abstraction. He mentions among the coffee-shops into which he -crept in those wretched days “one in St. Martin’s Lane, of which I only -recollect that it stood near the church, and that in the door there -was an oval glass plate with ‘COFFEE ROOM’ painted on it, addressed -towards the street. If I ever find myself in a very different kind of -coffee-room now, but where there is such an inscription on glass, and -read it backwards on the wrong side, MOOR EEFFOC (as I often used to do -then in a dismal reverie), a shock goes through my blood.” That wild -word, “Moor Eeffoc,” is the motto of all effective realism! it is the -masterpiece of the good realistic principle--the principle that the -most fantastic thing of all is often the precise fact. And that elvish -kind of realism Dickens adopted everywhere. His world was alive with -inanimate objects. The date on the door danced over Mr. Grewgius, the -knocker grinned at Mr. Scrooge, the Roman on the ceiling pointed down -at Mr. Tulkinghorn, the elderly armchair leered at Tom Smart--these are -all _moor eeffocish_ things. A man sees them because he does not look -at them. - -And so the little Dickens Dickensized London. He prepared the way for -all his personages. Into whatever cranny of our city his characters -might crawl, Dickens had been there before them. However wild were -the events he narrated as outside him, they could not be wilder -than the things that had gone on within. However queer a character -of Dickens might be, he could hardly be queerer than Dickens was. -The whole secret of his after-writings is sealed up in those silent -years of which no written word remains. Those years did him harm -perhaps, as his biographer, Forster, has thoughtfully suggested, -by sharpening a certain fierce individualism in him which once or -twice during his genial life flashed like a half-hidden knife. He -was always generous; but things had gone too hardly with him for him -to be always easy-going. He was always kind-hearted; he was not -always good-humoured. Those years may also, in their strange mixture -of morbidity and reality, have increased in him his tendency to -exaggeration. But we can scarcely lament this in a literary sense; -exaggeration is almost the definition of art--and it is entirely the -definition of Dickens’s art. Those years may have given him many moral -and mental wounds, from which he never recovered. But they gave him the -key of the street. - -There is a weird contradiction in the soul of the born optimist. He -can be happy and unhappy at the same time. With Dickens the practical -depression of his life at this time did nothing to prevent him from -laying up those hilarious memories of which all his books are made. -No doubt he was genuinely unhappy in the poor place where his mother -kept school. Nevertheless it was there that he noticed the unfathomable -quaintness of the little servant whom he made into the Marchioness. -No doubt he was comfortless enough at the boarding-house of Mrs. -Roylance; but he perceived with a dreadful joy that Mrs. Roylance’s -name was Pipchin. There seems to be no incompatibility between taking -in tragedy and giving out comedy; they are able to run parallel in the -same personality. One incident which he described in his unfinished -“autobiography,” and which he afterwards transferred almost verbatim -to David Copperfield, was peculiarly rich and impressive. It was the -inauguration of a petition to the King for a bounty, drawn up by a -committee of the prisoners in the Marshalsea, a committee of which -Dickens’s father was the president, no doubt in virtue of his oratory, -and also the scribe, no doubt in virtue of his genuine love of literary -flights. - -“As many of the principal officers of this body as could be got into -a small room without filling it up, supported him in front of the -petition; and my old friend, Captain Porter (who had washed himself -to do honour to so solemn an occasion), stationed himself close to -it, to read it to all who were unacquainted with its contents. The -door was then thrown open, and they began to come in in a long file; -several waiting on the landing outside, while one entered, affixed his -signature, and went out. To everybody in succession Captain Porter -said, ‘Would you like to hear it read’? If he weakly showed the least -disposition to hear it, Captain Porter in a loud, sonorous voice gave -him every word of it. I remember a certain luscious roll he gave to -such words as ‘Majesty--Gracious Majesty--Your Gracious Majesty’s -unfortunate subjects--Your Majesty’s well-known munificence,’ as if -the words were something real in his mouth and delicious to taste: my -poor father meanwhile listening with a little of an author’s vanity and -contemplating (not severely) the spike on the opposite wall. Whatever -was comical or pathetic in this scene, I sincerely believe I perceived -in my corner, whether I demonstrated it or not, quite as well as I -should perceive it now. I made out my own little character and story -for every man who put his name to the sheet of paper.” - -Here we see very plainly that Dickens did not merely look back in after -days and see that these humours had been delightful. He was delighted -at the same moment that he was desperate. The two opposite things -existed in him simultaneously, and each in its full strength. His soul -was not a mixed colour like grey and purple, caused by no component -colour being quite itself. His soul was like a shot silk of black and -crimson, a shot silk of misery and joy. - -Seen from the outside, his little pleasures and extravagances seem -more pathetic than his grief. Once the solemn little figure went into -a public-house in Parliament Street, and addressed the man behind the -bar in the following terms--“What is your very best--the VERY _best_ -ale a glass?” The man replied, “Twopence.” “Then,” said the infant, -“just draw me a glass of that, if you please, with a good head to -it.” “The landlord,” says Dickens, in telling the story, “looked at -me in return over the bar from head to foot with a strange smile on -his face; instead of drawing the beer looked round the screen and said -something to his wife, who came out from behind it with her work in -her hand and joined him in surveying me.... They asked me a good many -questions as to what my name was, how old I was, where I lived, how I -was employed, etc., etc. To all of which, that I might commit nobody, -I invented appropriate answers. They served me with the ale, though I -suspect it was not the strongest on the premises; and the landlord’s -wife, opening the little half-door, and bending down, gave me a kiss.” -Here he touches that other side of common life which he was chiefly to -champion; he was to show that there is no ale like the ale of a poor -man’s festival, and no pleasures like the pleasures of the poor. At -other places of refreshment he was yet more majestic. “I remember,” -he says, “tucking my own bread (which I had brought from home in the -morning) under my arm, wrapt up in a piece of paper like a book, and -going into the best dining-room in Johnson’s Alamode Beef House in -Clare Court, Drury Lane, and magnificently ordering a small plate of -_à-la-mode_ beef to eat with it. What the waiter thought of such a -strange little apparition coming in all alone I don’t know; but I can -see him now staring at me as I ate my dinner, and bringing up the other -waiter to look. I gave him a halfpenny, and I wish, now, that he hadn’t -taken it.” - -For the boy individually the prospect seemed to be growing drearier -and drearier. This phrase indeed hardly expresses the fact; for, as -he felt it, it was not so much a run of worsening luck as the closing -in of a certain and quiet calamity like the coming on of twilight and -dark. He felt that he would die and be buried in blacking. Through all -this he does not seem to have said much to his parents of his distress. -They who were in prison had certainly a much jollier time than he who -was free. But of all the strange ways in which the human being proves -that he is not a rational being, whatever else he is, no case is so -mysterious and unaccountable as the secrecy of childhood. We learn of -the cruelty of some school or child-factory from journalists; we learn -it from inspectors, we learn it from doctors, we learn it even from -shame-stricken schoolmasters and repentant sweaters; but we never -learn it from the children; we never learn it from the victims. It -would seem as if a living creature had to be taught, like an art of -culture, the art of crying out when it is hurt. It would seem as if -patience were the natural thing; it would seem as if impatience were an -accomplishment like whist. However this may be, it is wholly certain -that Dickens might have drudged and died drudging, and buried the -unborn Pickwick, but for an external accident. - -He was, as has been said, in the habit of visiting his father at -the Marshalsea every week. The talks between the two must have been -a comedy, at once more cruel and more delicate than Dickens ever -described. Meredith might picture the comparison between the child -whose troubles were so childish, but who felt them like a damned -spirit, and the middle-aged man whose trouble was final ruin, and who -felt it no more than a baby. Once, it would appear, the boy broke down -altogether--perhaps under the unbearable buoyancy of his oratorical -papa--and implored to be freed from the factory--implored it, I fear, -with a precocious and almost horrible eloquence. The old optimist was -astounded--too much astounded to do anything in particular. Whether -the incident had really anything to do with what followed cannot be -decided, but ostensibly it had not. Ostensibly the cause of Charles’s -ultimate liberation was a quarrel between his father and Lamert, the -head of the factory. Dickens the elder (who had at last left the -Marshalsea) could no doubt conduct a quarrel with the magnificence of -Micawber; the result of this talent, at any rate, was to leave Mr. -Lamert in a towering rage. He had a stormy interview with Charles, in -which he tried to be good-tempered to the boy, but could hardly master -his tongue about the boy’s father. Finally he told him he must go, and -with every observance the little creature was solemnly expelled from -hell. - -His mother, with a touch of strange harshness, was for patching up -the quarrel and sending him back. Perhaps, with the fierce feminine -responsibility, she felt that the first necessity was to keep the -family out of debt. But old John Dickens put his foot down here--put -his foot down with that ringing but very rare decision with which -(once in ten years, and often on some trivial matter) the weakest man -will overwhelm the strongest woman. The boy was miserable; the boy -was clever; the boy should go to school. The boy went to school; he -went to the Wellington House Academy, Mornington Place. It was an odd -experience for any one to go from the world to a school, instead of -going from school to the world. Dickens, we may say, had his boyhood -after his youth. He had seen life at its coarsest before he began his -training for it, and knew the worst words in the English language -probably before the best. This odd chronology, it will be remembered, -he retained in his semi-autobiographical account of the adventures -of David Copperfield, who went into the business of Murdstone and -Grinby’s before he went to the school kept by Dr. Strong. David -Copperfield, also, went to be carefully prepared for a world that he -had seen already. Outside David Copperfield, the records of Dickens at -this time reduce themselves to a few glimpses provided by accidental -companions of his schooldays, and little can be deduced from them -about his personality beyond a general impression of sharpness and, -perhaps, of bravado, of bright eyes and bright speeches. Probably the -young creature was recuperating himself for his misfortunes, was making -the most of his liberty, was flapping the wings of that wild spirit -that had just not been broken. We hear of things that sound suddenly -juvenile after his maturer troubles, of a secret language sounding like -mere gibberish, and of a small theatre, with paint and red fire, such -as that which Stevenson loved. It was not an accident that Dickens and -Stevenson loved it. It is a stage unsuited for psychological realism; -the cardboard characters cannot analyze each other with any effect. -But it is a stage almost divinely suited for making surroundings, -for making that situation and background which belong peculiarly -to romance. A toy theatre, in fact, is the opposite of private -theatricals. In the latter you can do anything with the people if you -do not ask much from the scenery; in the former you can do anything -in scenery if you do not ask much from the people. In a toy theatre -you could hardly manage a modern dialogue on marriage, but the Day of -Judgment would be quite easy. - -After leaving school, Dickens found employment as a clerk to Mr. -Blackmore, a solicitor, as one of those inconspicuous under-clerks whom -he afterwards turned to many grotesque uses. Here, no doubt, he met -Lowten and Swiveller, Chuckster and Wobbler, in so far as such sacred -creatures ever had embodiments on this lower earth. But it is typical -of him that he had no fancy at all to remain a solicitor’s clerk. The -resolution to rise which had glowed in him even as a dawdling boy, when -he gazed at Gad’s-hill, which had been darkened but not quite destroyed -by his fall into the factory routine, which had been released again -by his return to normal boyhood and the boundaries of school, was not -likely to content itself now with the copying out of agreements. He -set to work, without any advice or help, to learn to be a reporter. -He worked all day at law, and then all night at shorthand. It is an -art which can only be effected by time, and he had to effect it by -overtime. But learning the thing under every disadvantage, without a -teacher, without the possibility of concentration or complete mental -force, without ordinary human sleep, he made himself one of the most -rapid reporters then alive. There is a curious contrast between the -casualness of the mental training to which his parents and others -subjected him and the savage seriousness of the training to which he -subjected himself. Somebody once asked old John Dickens where his son -Charles was educated. “Well, really,” said the great creature, in his -spacious way, “he may be said--ah--to have educated himself.” He might -indeed. - -This practical intensity of Dickens is worth our dwelling on, because -it illustrates an elementary antithesis in his character, or what -appears as an antithesis in our modern popular psychology. We are -always talking about strong men against weak men; but Dickens was not -only both a weak man and a strong man, he was a very weak man and also -a very strong man. He was everything that we currently call a weak man; -he was a man hung on wires; he was a man who might at any moment cry -like a child; he was so sensitive to criticism that one may say that -he lacked a skin; he was so nervous that he allowed great tragedies -in his life to arise only out of nerves. But in the matter where all -ordinary strong men are miserably weak--in the matter of concentrated -toil and clear purpose and unconquerable worldly courage--he was like a -straight sword. Mrs. Carlyle, who in her human epithets often hit the -right nail so that it rang, said of him once, “He has a face made of -steel.” This was probably felt in a flash when she saw, in some social -crowd, the clear, eager face of Dickens cutting through those near him -like a knife. Any people who had met him from year to year would each -year have found a man weakly troubled about his worldly decline; and -each year they would have found him higher up in the world. His was a -character very hard for any man of slow and placable temperament to -understand; he was the character whom anybody can hurt and nobody can -kill. - -When he began to report in the House of Commons he was still only -nineteen. His father, who had been released from his prison a short -time before Charles had been released from his, had also become, -among many other things, a reporter. But old John Dickens could enjoy -doing anything without any particular aspiration after doing it well. -But Charles was of a very different temper. He was, as I have said, -consumed with an enduring and almost angry thirst to excel. He learnt -shorthand with a dark self-devotion as if it were a sacred hieroglyph. -Of this self-instruction, as of everything else, he has left humorous -and illuminating phrases. He describes how, after he had learnt the -whole exact alphabet, “there then appeared a procession of new horrors, -called arbitrary characters--the most despotic characters I have ever -known; who insisted, for instance, that a thing like the beginning of a -cobweb meant ‘expectation,’ and that a pen-and-ink skyrocket stood for -‘disadvantageous.’” He concludes, “It was almost heartbreaking.” But -it is significant that somebody else, a colleague of his, concluded, -“There never _was_ such a shorthand writer.” - -Dickens succeeded in becoming a shorthand writer; succeeded in -becoming a reporter; succeeded ultimately in becoming a highly -effective journalist. He was appointed as a reporter of the speeches -in Parliament, first by _The True Sun_, then by _The Mirror of -Parliament_, and last by _The Morning Chronicle_. He reported the -speeches very well, and if we must analyze his internal opinions, much -better than they deserved. For it must be remembered that this lad went -into the reporter’s gallery full of the triumphant Radicalism which -was then the rising tide of the world. He was, it must be confessed, -very little overpowered by the dignity of the Mother of Parliaments: he -regarded the House of Commons much as he regarded the House of Lords, -as a sort of venerable joke. It was, perhaps, while he watched, pale -with weariness from the reporter’s gallery, that there sank into him a -thing that never left him, his unfathomable contempt for the British -Constitution. Then perhaps he heard from the Government benches the -immortal apologies of the Circumlocution Office. “Then would the noble -lord or right honourable gentleman, in whose department it was to -defend the Circumlocution Office, put an orange in his pocket, and make -a regular field-day of the occasion. Then would he come down to that -house with a slap upon the table and meet the honourable gentleman foot -to foot. Then would he be there to tell that honourable gentleman that -the Circumlocution Office was not only blameless in this matter, but -was commendable in this matter, was extollable to the skies in this -matter. Then would he be there to tell that honourable gentleman that -although the Circumlocution Office was invariably right, and wholly -right, it never was so right as in this matter. Then would he be there -to tell the honourable gentleman that it would have been more to his -honour, more to his credit, more to his good taste, more to his good -sense, more to half the dictionary of common-places if he had left the -Circumlocution Office alone and never approached this matter. Then -would he keep one eye upon a coach or crammer from the Circumlocution -Office below the bar, and smash the honourable gentleman with the -Circumlocution Office account of this matter. And although one of two -things always happened; namely, either that the Circumlocution Office -had nothing to say, and said it, or that it had something to say of -which the noble lord or right honourable gentleman blundered one half -and forgot the other; the Circumlocution Office was always voted -immaculate by an accommodating majority.” We are now generally told -that Dickens has destroyed these abuses, and that this is no longer a -true picture of public life. Such, at any rate, is the Circumlocution -Office account of this matter. But Dickens as a good Radical would, -I fancy, much prefer that we should continue his battle than that -we should celebrate his triumph; especially when it has not come. -England is still ruled by the great Barnacle family. Parliament is -still ruled by the great Barnacle trinity--the solemn old Barnacle, who -knew that the Circumlocution Office was a protection, the sprightly -young Barnacle who knew that it was a fraud, and the bewildered young -Barnacle who knew nothing about it. From these three types our Cabinets -are still exclusively recruited. People talk of the tyrannies and -anomalies which Dickens denounced as things of the past like the Star -Chamber. They believe that the days of the old stupid optimism and the -old brutal indifference are gone for ever. In truth, this very belief -is only the continuance of the old stupid optimism and the old brutal -indifference. We believe in a free England and a pure England, because -we still believe in the Circumlocution Office account of this matter. -Undoubtedly our serenity is wide-spread. We believe that England is -really reformed, we believe that England is really democratic, we -believe that English politics are free from corruption. But this -general satisfaction of ours does not show that Dickens has beaten the -Barnacles. It only shows that the Barnacles have beaten Dickens. - -It cannot be too often said, then, that we must read into young -Dickens and his works this old Radical tone towards institutions. That -tone was a sort of happy impatience. And when Dickens had to listen for -hours to the speech of the noble lord in defence of the Circumlocution -Office, when, that is, he had to listen to what he regarded as the last -vaporings of a vanishing oligarchy, the impatience rather predominated -over the happiness. His incurably restless nature found more pleasure -in the wandering side of journalism. He went about wildly in -post-chaises to report political meetings for the _Morning Chronicle_. -“And what gentlemen they were to serve,” he exclaimed, “in such things -at the old _Morning Chronicle_. Great or small it did not matter. I -have had to charge for half a dozen breakdowns in half a dozen times -as many miles. I have had to charge for the damage of a great-coat -from the drippings of a blazing wax candle, in writing through the -smallest hours of the night in a swift flying carriage and pair.” And -again, “I have often transcribed for the printer from my shorthand -notes important public speeches in which the strictest accuracy was -required, and a mistake in which would have been to a young man -severely compromising, writing on the palm of my hand, by the light of -a dark lantern, in a post-chaise and four, galloping through a wild -country and through the dead of the night, at the then surprising rate -of fifteen miles an hour.” The whole of Dickens’s life goes with the -throb of that nocturnal gallop. All its real wildness shot through with -an imaginative wickedness he afterwards uttered in the drive of Jonas -Chuzzlewit through the storm. - -All this time, and indeed from a time of which no measure can be taken, -the creative part of his mind had been in a stir or even a fever. While -still a small boy he had written for his own amusement some sketches -of queer people he had met; notably, one of his uncle’s barber, whose -principal hobby was pointing out what Napoleon ought to have done -in the matter of military tactics. He had a note-book full of such -sketches. He had sketches not only of persons, but of places which -were to him almost more personal than persons. In the December of 1833 -he published one of these fragments in the _Old Monthly Magazine_. -This was followed by nine others in the same paper, and when the paper -(which was a romantically Radical venture, run by a veteran soldier of -Bolivar) itself collapsed, Dickens continued the series in the _Evening -Chronicle_, an off-shoot of the morning paper of the same name. These -were the pieces afterwards published and known as the “Sketches by -Boz”; and with them Dickens enters literature. He also enters many -other things about this time; he enters manhood, and among other -things marriage. A friend of his on the _Chronicle_, George Hogarth, -had several daughters. With all of them Dickens appears to have been -on terms of great affection. This sketch is wholly literary, and I do -not feel it necessary to do more than touch upon such incidents as his -marriage, just as I shall do no more than touch upon the tragedy that -ultimately overtook it. But it may be suggested here that the final -misfortunes were in some degree due to the circumstances attending the -original action. A very young man fighting his way, and excessively -poor, with no memories for years past that were not monotonous -and mean, and with his strongest and most personal memories quite -ignominious and unendurable, was suddenly thrown into the society of a -whole family of girls. I think it does not overstate his weakness, and -I think it partly constitutes his excuse, to say that he fell in love -with all of them. As sometimes happens in the undeveloped youth, an -abstract femininity simply intoxicated him. And again, I think we shall -not be mistakenly accused of harshness if we put the point in this way; -that by a kind of accident he got hold of the wrong sister. In what -came afterwards he was enormously to blame. But I do not think that his -was a case of cold division from a woman whom he had once seriously -and singly loved. He had been bewildered in a burning haze, I will not -say even of first love, but of first flirtations. His wife’s sisters -stimulated him before he fell in love with his wife; and they continued -to stimulate him long after he had quarrelled with her for ever. This -view is strikingly supported by all the details of his attitude towards -all the other members of the sacred house of Hogarth. One of the -sisters remained, of course, his dearest friend till death. Another who -had died, he worshipped as a saint, and he always asked to be buried -in her grave. He was married on April 2, 1836. Forster remarks that a -few days before the announcement of their marriage in the _Times_, the -same paper contained another announcement that on the 31st would be -published the first number of a work called “The Posthumous Papers of -the Pickwick Club.” It is the beginning of his career. - -The “Sketches,” apart from splendid splashes of humour here and there, -are not manifestations of the man of genius. We might almost say -that this book is one of the few books by Dickens which would not, -standing alone, have made his fame. And yet standing alone it did -make his fame. His contemporaries could see a new spirit in it, where -we, familiar with the larger fruits of that spirit, can only see a -continuation of the prosaic and almost wooden wit of the comic books -of that day. But in any case we should hardly look in the man’s first -book for the fulness of his contribution to letters. Youth is almost -everything else, but it is hardly ever original. We read of young men -bursting on the old world with a new message. But youth in actual -experience is the period of imitation and even obedience. Subjectively -its emotions may be furious and headlong; but its only external outcome -is a furious imitation and a headlong obedience. As we grow older we -learn the special thing we have to do. As a man goes on towards the -grave he discovers gradually a philosophy he can really call fresh, a -style he can really call his own, and as he becomes an older man he -becomes a newer writer. Ibsen, in his youth, wrote almost classic plays -about vikings; it was in his old age that he began to break windows and -throw fireworks. The only fault, it was said, of Browning’s first poems -was that they had “too much beauty of imagery, and too little wealth of -thought.” The only fault, that is, of Browning’s first poems, was that -they were not Browning’s. - -In one way, however, the “Sketches by Boz” do stand out very -symbolically in the life of Dickens. They constitute in a manner -the dedication of him to his especial task; the sympathetic and yet -exaggerated painting of the poorer middle-class. He was to make men -feel that this dull middle-class was actually a kind of elf-land. -But here, again, the work is rude and undeveloped; and this is shown -in the fact that it is a great deal more exaggerative than it is -sympathetic. We are not, of course, concerned with the kind of people -who say that they wish that Dickens was more refined. If those people -are ever refined it will be by fire. But there is in this earliest -work, an element which almost vanished in the later ones, an element -which is typical of the middle-classes in England, and which is in a -more real sense to be called vulgar. I mean that in these little farces -there is a trace, in the author as well as in the characters, of that -petty sense of social precedence, that hub-hub of little unheard-of -oligarchies, which is the only serious sin of the bourgeoisie of -Britain. It may seem pragmatical, for example, to instance such a rowdy -farce as the story of Horatio Sparkins, which tells how a tuft-hunting -family entertained a rhetorical youth thinking he was a lord, and -found he was a draper’s assistant. No doubt they were very snobbish -in thinking that a lord must be eloquent; but we cannot help feeling -that Dickens is almost equally snobbish in feeling it so very funny -that a draper’s assistant should be eloquent. A free man, one would -think, would despise the family quite as much if Horatio had been a -peer. Here, and here only, there is just a touch of the vulgarity, of -the only vulgarity of the world out of which Dickens came. For the only -element of lowness that there really is in our populace is exactly that -they are full of superiorities and very conscious of class. Shades, -imperceptible to the eyes of others, but as hard and haughty as a -Brahmin caste, separate one kind of charwoman from another kind of -charwoman. Dickens was destined to show with inspired symbolism all -the immense virtues of the democracy. He was to show them as the most -humorous part of our civilization; which they certainly are. He was to -show them as the most promptly and practically compassionate part of -our civilization; which they certainly are. The democracy has a hundred -exuberant good qualities; the democracy has only one outstanding -sin--it is not democratic. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -“THE PICKWICK PAPERS” - - -Round the birth of “Pickwick” broke one of those literary quarrels -that were too common in the life of Dickens. Such quarrels indeed -generally arose from some definite mistake or misdemeanour on the part -of somebody else; but they were also made possible by an indefinite -touchiness and susceptibility in Dickens himself. He was so sensitive -on points of personal authorship and responsibility that even his -sacred sense of humour deserted him. He turned people into mortal -enemies whom he might have turned very easily into immortal jokes. It -was not that he was lawless: in a sense it was that he was too legal; -but he did not understand the principle of _de minimis non curat lex_. -Anybody could draw him; any fool could make a fool of him. Any obscure -madman who chose to say that he had written the whole of “Martin -Chuzzlewit”; any penny-a-liner who chose to say that Dickens wore no -shirt collar could call forth the most passionate and public denials as -of a man pleading “not guilty” to witchcraft or high treason. Hence -the letters of Dickens are filled with a certain singular type of -quarrels and complaints, quarrels and complaints in which one cannot -say that he was on the wrong side, but merely that even in being on the -right side he was in the wrong place. He was not only a generous man, -he was even a just man; to have made against anybody a charge or claim -which was unfair would have been insupportable to him. His weakness -was that he found the unfair claim or charge, however small, equally -insupportable when brought against himself. No one can say of him -that he was often wrong; we can only say of him as of many pugnacious -people, that he was too often right. - -The incidents attending the inauguration of the “Pickwick Papers” are -not, perhaps, a perfect example of this trait, because Dickens was here -a hand-to-mouth journalist, and the blow might possibly have been more -disabling than those struck at him in his days of triumph. But all -through those days of triumph, and to the day of his death, Dickens -took this old tea-cup tempest with the most terrible gravity, drew -up declarations, called witnesses, preserved pulverizing documents, -and handed on to his children the forgotten folly as if it had been -a Highland feud. Yet the unjust claim made on him was so much more -ridiculous even than it was unjust, that it seems strange that he -should have remembered it for a month except for his amusement. The -facts are simple and familiar to most people. The publishers--Chapman -& Hall--wished to produce some kind of serial with comic illustrations -by a popular caricaturist named Seymour. This artist was chiefly famous -for his rendering of the farcical side of sport, and to suit this -specialty it was very vaguely suggested to Dickens by the publishers -that he should write about a Nimrod Club, or some such thing, a club -of amateur sportsmen, foredoomed to perpetual ignominies. Dickens -objected in substance upon two very sensible grounds--first, that -sporting sketches were stale; and second, that he knew nothing about -sport. He changed the idea to that of a general club for travel -and investigation, the Pickwick Club, and only retained one fated -sportsman, Mr. Winkle, the melancholy remnant of the Nimrod Club that -never was. The first seven pictures appeared with the signature of -Seymour and the letterpress of Dickens, and in them Winkle and his -woes were fairly, but not extraordinarily prominent. Before the eighth -picture appeared Seymour had blown his brains out. After a brief -interval of the employment of a man named Buss, Dickens obtained the -assistance of Hoblot K. Brown whom we all call “Phiz,” and may almost, -in a certain sense, be said to have gone into partnership with him. -They were as suited to each other and to the common creation of a -unique thing as Gilbert and Sullivan. No other illustrator ever created -the true Dickens characters with the precise and correct quantum of -exaggeration. No other illustrator ever breathed the true Dickens -atmosphere, in which clerks are clerks and yet at the same time elves. - -To the tame mind the above affair does not seem to offer anything -very promising in the way of a row. But Seymour’s widow managed to -evolve out of it the proposition that somehow or other her husband had -written “Pickwick,” or, at least, had been responsible for the genius -and success of it. It does not appear that she had anything at all -resembling a reason for this opinion except the unquestionable fact -that the publishers had started with the idea of employing Seymour. -This was quite true, and Dickens (who over and above his honesty was -far too quarrelsome a man not to try to keep in the right, and who -showed a sort of fierce carefulness in telling the truth in such cases) -never denied it or attempted to conceal it. It was quite true, that -at the beginning, instead of Seymour being employed to illustrate -Dickens, Dickens may be said to have been employed to illustrate -Seymour. But that Seymour invented anything in the letter-press large -or small, that he invented either the outline of Mr. Pickwick’s -character or the number of Mr. Pickwick’s cabman, that he invented -either the story, or so much as a semi-colon in the story was not only -never proved, but was never very lucidly alleged. Dickens fills his -letters with all that there is to be said against Mrs. Seymour’s idea; -it is not very clear whether there was ever anything definitely said -for it. - -Upon the mere superficial fact and law of the affair, Dickens ought -to have been superior to this silly business. But in a much deeper -and a much more real sense he ought to have been superior to it. -It did not really touch him or his greatness at all, even as an -abstract allegation. If Seymour had started the story, had provided -Dickens with his puppets, Tupman or Jingle, Dickens would have still -have been Dickens and Seymour only Seymour. As a matter of fact, it -happened to be a contemptible lie, but it would have been an equally -contemptible truth. For the fact is that the greatness of Dickens and -especially the greatness of Pickwick is not of a kind that could be -affected by somebody else suggesting the first idea. It could not be -affected by somebody else writing the first chapter. If it could be -shown that another man had suggested to Hawthorne (let us say) the -primary conception of the “Scarlet Letter,” Hawthorne who worked it -out would still be an exquisite workman; but he would be by so much -less a creator. But in a case like Pickwick there is a simple test. -If Seymour gave Dickens the main idea of Pickwick, what was it? There -is no primary conception of Pickwick for any one to suggest. Dickens -not only did not get the general plan from Seymour, he did not get it -at all. In Pickwick, and, indeed, in Dickens, generally it is in the -details that the author is creative, it is in the details that he is -vast. The power of the book lies in the perpetual torrent of ingenious -and inventive treatment; the theme (at least at the beginning) simply -does not exist. The idea of Tupman, the fat lady-killer, is in itself -quite dreary and vulgar; it is the detailed Tupman, as he is developed, -who is unexpectedly amusing. The idea of Winkle, the clumsy sportsman, -is in itself quite stale; it is as he goes on repeating himself that -he becomes original. We hear of men whose imagination can touch with -magic the dull facts of our life, but Dickens’s yet more indomitable -fancy could touch with magic even our dull fiction. Before we are -halfway through the book the stock characters of dead and damned farces -astonish us like splendid strangers. - -Seymour’s claim, then, viewed symbolically was even a compliment. It -was true in spirit that Dickens obtained (or might have obtained) the -start of Pickwick from somebody else, from anybody else. For he had -a more gigantic energy than the energy of the intense artist, the -energy which is prepared to write something. He had the energy which -is prepared to write anything. He could have finished any man’s tale. -He could have breathed a mad life into any man’s characters. If it -had been true that Seymour had planned out Pickwick, if Seymour had -fixed the chapters and named and numbered the characters, his slave -would have shown even in these shackles such a freedom as would have -shaken the world. If Dickens had been forced to make his incidents out -of a chapter in a child’s reading-book, or the names in a scrap of -newspaper, he would have turned them in ten pages into creatures of -his own. Seymour, as I say, was in a manner right in spirit. Dickens -would at this time get his materials from anywhere, in the sense that -he cared little what materials they were. He would not have stolen; -but if he had stolen he would never have imitated. The power which -he proceeded at once to exhibit was the one power in letters which -literally cannot be imitated, the primary inexhaustible creative -energy, the enormous prodigality of genius which no one but another -genius could parody. To claim to have originated an idea of Dickens is -like claiming to have contributed a glass of water to Niagara. Wherever -this stream or that stream started the colossal cataract of absurdity -went roaring night and day. The volume of his invention overwhelmed all -doubt of his inventiveness; Dickens was evidently a great man; unless -he was a thousand men. - -The actual circumstances of the writing and publishing of “Pickwick” -show that while Seymour’s specific claim was absurd, Dickens’s -indignant exactitude about every jot and tittle of authorship was also -inappropriate and misleading. “The Pickwick Papers,” when all is said -and done, did emerge out of a haze of suggestions and proposals in -which more than one person was involved. The publishers failed to base -the story on a Nimrod Club, but they succeeded in basing it on a club. -Seymour, by virtue of his idiosyncrasy, if he did not create, brought -about the creation of Mr. Winkle. Seymour sketched Mr. Pickwick as a -tall, thin man. Mr. Chapman (apparently without any word from Dickens) -boldly turned him into a short, fat man. Chapman took the type from a -corpulent old dandy named Foster, who wore tights and gaiters and lived -at Richmond. In this sense were we affected by this idle aspect of the -thing we might call Chapman the real originator of “Pickwick.” But as I -have suggested, originating “Pickwick” is not the point. It was quite -easy to originate “Pickwick.” The difficulty was to write it. - -However such things may be, there can be no question of the result of -this chaos. In “The Pickwick Papers” Dickens sprang suddenly from a -comparatively low level to a very high one. To the level of “Sketches -by Boz” he never afterwards descended. To the level of “The Pickwick -Papers” it is doubtful if he ever afterwards rose. “Pickwick,” indeed, -is not a good novel; but it is not a bad novel, for it is not a novel -at all. In one sense, indeed, it is something nobler than a novel, for -no novel with a plot and a proper termination could emit that sense of -everlasting youth--a sense as of the gods gone wandering in England. -This is not a novel, for all novels have an end; and “Pickwick,” -properly speaking, has no end--he is equal unto the angels. The point -at which, as a fact, we find the printed matter terminates is not -an end in any artistic sense of the word. Even as a boy I believed -there were some more pages that were torn out of my copy, and I am -looking for them still. The book might have been cut short anywhere -else. It might have been cut short after Mr. Pickwick was released by -Mr. Nupkins, or after Mr. Pickwick was fished out of the water, or at -a hundred other places. And we should still have known that this was -not really the story’s end. We should have known that Mr. Pickwick -was still having the same high adventures on the same high roads. As -it happens, the book ends after Mr. Pickwick has taken a house in the -neighbourhood of Dulwich. But we know he did not stop there. We know -he broke out, that he took again the road of the high adventures; we -know that if we take it ourselves in any acre of England, we may come -suddenly upon him in a lane. - -But this relation of “Pickwick” to the strict form of fiction demands -a further word, which should indeed be said in any case before the -consideration of any or all of the Dickens tales. Dickens’s work is -not to be reckoned in novels at all. Dickens’s work is to be reckoned -always by characters, sometimes by groups, oftener by episodes, but -never by novels. You cannot discuss whether “Nicholas Nickleby” is a -good novel, or whether “Our Mutual Friend” is a bad novel. Strictly, -there is no such novel as “Nicholas Nickleby.” There is no such novel -as “Our Mutual Friend.” They are simply lengths cut from the flowing -and mixed substance called Dickens--a substance of which any given -length will be certain to contain a given proportion of brilliant and -of bad stuff. You can say, according to your opinions, “the Crummles -part is perfect,” or “the Boffins are a mistake,” just as a man -watching a river go by him could count here a floating flower, and -there a streak of scum. But you cannot artistically divide the output -into books. The best of his work can be found in the worst of his -works. “The Tale of Two Cities” is a good novel; “Little Dorrit” is -not a good novel. But the description of “The Circumlocution Office” -in “Little Dorrit” is quite as good as the description of “Tellson’s -Bank” in “The Tale of Two Cities.” “The Old Curiosity Shop” is not -so good as “David Copperfield,” but Swiveller is quite as good as -Micawber. Nor is there any reason why these superb creatures, as a -general rule, should be in one novel any more than another. There is -no reason why Sam Weller, in the course of his wanderings, should not -wander into “Nicholas Nickleby.” There is no reason why Major Bagstock, -in his brisk way, should not walk straight out of “Dombey and Son” -and straight into “Martin Chuzzlewit.” To this generalization some -modification should be added. “Pickwick” stands by itself, and has even -a sort of unity in not pretending to unity. “David Copperfield,” in a -less degree, stands by itself, as being the only book in which Dickens -wrote of himself; and “The Tale of Two Cities” stands by itself as -being the only book in which Dickens slightly altered himself. But as -a whole, this should be firmly grasped, that the units of Dickens, the -primary elements, are not the stories, but the characters who affect -the stories--or, more often still, the characters who do not affect the -stories. - -This is a plain matter; but, unless it be stated and felt, Dickens may -be greatly misunderstood and greatly underrated. For not only is his -whole machinery directed to facilitating the self-display of certain -characters, but something more deep and more unmodern still is also -true of him. It is also true that all the _moving_ machinery exists -only to display entirely _static_ character. Things in the Dickens -story shift and change only in order to give us glimpses of great -characters that do not change at all. If we had a sequel of Pickwick -ten years afterwards, Pickwick would be exactly the same age. We know -he would not have fallen into that strange and beautiful second -childhood which soothed and simplified the end of Colonel Newcome. -Newcome, throughout the book, is in an atmosphere of time: Pickwick, -throughout the book, is not. This will probably be taken by most modern -people as praise of Thackeray and dispraise of Dickens. But this only -shows how few modern people understand Dickens. It also shows how few -understand the faiths and the fables of mankind. The matter can only be -roughly stated in one way. Dickens did not strictly make a literature; -he made a mythology. - -For a few years our corner of Western Europe has had a fancy for this -thing we call fiction; that is, for writing down our own lives or -similar lives in order to look at them. But though we call it fiction, -it differs from older literatures chiefly in being less fictitious. -It imitates not only life, but the limitations of life; it not only -reproduces life, it reproduces death. But outside us, in every other -country, in every other age, there has been going on from the beginning -a more fictitious kind of fiction. I mean the kind now called folklore, -the literature of the people. Our modern novels, which deal with men -as they are, are chiefly produced by a small and educated section of -the society. But this other literature deals with men greater than -they are--with demi-gods and heroes; and that is far too important a -matter to be trusted to the educated classes. The fashioning of these -portents is a popular trade, like ploughing or bricklaying; the men who -made hedges, the men who made ditches, were the men who made deities. -Men could not elect their kings, but they could elect their gods. So we -find ourselves faced with a fundamental contrast between what is called -fiction and what is called folklore. The one exhibits an abnormal -degree of dexterity operating within our daily limitations; the other -exhibits quite normal desires extended beyond those limitations. -Fiction means the common things as seen by the uncommon people. Fairy -tales mean the uncommon things as seen by the common people. - -As our world advances through history towards its present epoch, it -becomes more specialist, less democratic, and folklore turns gradually -into fiction. But it is only slowly that the old elfin fire fades into -the light of common realism. For ages after our characters have dressed -up in the clothes of mortals they betray the blood of the gods. Even -our phraseology is full of relics of this. When a modern novel is -devoted to the bewilderments of a weak young clerk who cannot decide -which woman he wants to marry, or which new religion he believes in, -we still give this knock-kneed cad the name of “the hero”--the name -which is the crown of Achilles. The popular preference for a story -with “a happy ending” is not, or at least was not, a mere sweet-stuff -optimism; it is the remains of the old idea of the triumph of the -dragon-slayer, the ultimate apotheosis of the man beloved of heaven. - -But there is another and more intangible trace of this fading -supernaturalism--a trace very vivid to the reader, but very elusive -to the critic. It is a certain air of endlessness in the episodes, -even in the shortest episodes--a sense that, although we leave them, -they still go on. Our modern attraction to short stories is not an -accident of form; it is the sign of a real sense of fleetingness and -fragility; it means that existence is only an impression, and, perhaps, -only an illusion. A short story of to-day has the air of a dream; it -has the irrevocable beauty of a falsehood; we get a glimpse of grey -streets of London or red plains of India, as in an opium vision; we -see people,--arresting people, with fiery and appealing faces. But -when the story is ended, the people are ended. We have no instinct -of anything ultimate and enduring behind the episodes. The moderns, -in a word, describe life in short stories because they are possessed -with the sentiment that life itself is an uncommonly short story, -and perhaps not a true one. But in this elder literature, even in the -comic literature (indeed, especially in the comic literature), the -reverse is true. The characters are felt to be fixed things of which -we have fleeting glimpses; that is, they are felt to be divine. Uncle -Toby is talking for ever, as the elves are dancing for ever. We feel -that whenever we hammer on the house of Falstaff, Falstaff will be -at home. We feel it as a Pagan would feel that, if a cry broke the -silence after ages of unbelief, Apollo would still be listening in his -temple. These writers may tell short stories, but we feel they are only -parts of a long story. And herein lies the peculiar significance, the -peculiar sacredness even, of penny dreadfuls and the common printed -matter made for our errand-boys. Here in dim and desperate forms, under -the ban of our base culture, stormed at by silly magistrates, sneered -at by silly schoolmasters,--here is the old popular literature still -popular; here is the unmistakable voluminousness, the thousand and one -tales of Dick Deadshot, like the thousand and one tales of Robin Hood. -Here is the splendid and static boy, the boy who remains a boy through -a thousand volumes and a thousand years. Here in mean alleys and dim -shops, shadowed and shamed by the police, mankind is still driving its -dark trade in heroes. And elsewhere, and in all other ages, in braver -fashion, under cleaner skies the same eternal tale-telling goes on, and -the whole mortal world is a factory of immortals. - -Dickens was a mythologist rather than a novelist; he was the last of -the mythologists, and perhaps the greatest. He did not always manage -to make his characters men, but he always managed, at the least, to -make them gods. They are creatures like Punch or Father Christmas. They -live statically, in a perpetual summer of being themselves. It was not -the aim of Dickens to show the effect of time and circumstance upon a -character; it was not even his aim to show the effect of a character on -time and circumstance. It is worth remark, in passing, that whenever he -tried to describe change in a character, he made a mess of it, as in -the repentance of Dombey or the apparent deterioration of Boffin. It -was his aim to show character hung in a kind of happy void, in a world -apart from time--yes, and essentially apart from circumstance, though -the phrase may seem odd in connection with the godlike horse-play of -“Pickwick.” But all the Pickwickian events, wild as they often are, -were only designed to display the greater wildness of souls, or -sometimes merely to bring the reader within touch, so to speak, of that -wildness. The author would have fired Mr. Pickwick out of a cannon to -get him to Wardle’s by Christmas; he would have taken the roof off to -drop him into Bob Sawyer’s party. But once put Pickwick at Wardle’s, -with his punch and a group of gorgeous personalities, and nothing will -move him from his chair. Once he is at Sawyer’s party, he forgets -how he got there; he forgets Mrs. Bardell and all his story. For the -story was but an incantation to call up a god, and the god (Mr. Jack -Hopkins) is present in divine power. Once the great characters are face -to face, the ladder by which they climbed is forgotten and falls down, -the structure of the story drops to pieces, the plot is abandoned, the -other characters deserted at every kind of crisis; the whole crowded -thoroughfare of the tale is blocked by two or three talkers, who take -their immortal ease as if they were already in Paradise. For they do -not exist for the story; the story exists for them; and they know it. - -To every man alive, one must hope, it has in some manner happened -that he has talked with his more fascinating friends round a table on -some night when all the numerous personalities unfolded themselves -like great tropical flowers. All fell into their parts as in some -delightful impromptu play. Every man was more himself than he had -ever been in this vale of tears. Every man was a beautiful caricature -of himself. The man who has known such nights will understand the -exaggerations of “Pickwick.” The man who has not known such nights -will not enjoy “Pickwick” nor (I imagine) heaven. For, as I have -said, Dickens is, in this matter, close to popular religion, which is -the ultimate and reliable religion. He conceives an endless joy; he -conceives creatures as permanent as Puck or Pan--creatures whose will -to live æons upon æons cannot satisfy. He is not come, as a writer, -that his creatures may copy life and copy its narrowness; he is come -that they may have life, and that they may have it more abundantly. It -is absurd indeed that Christians should be called the enemies of life -because they wish life to last for ever; it is more absurd still to -call the old comic writers dull because they wished their unchanging -characters to last for ever. Both popular religion, with its endless -joys, and the old comic story, with its endless jokes, have in our -time faded together. We are too weak to desire that undying vigour. -We believe that you can have too much of a good thing--a blasphemous -belief, which at one blow wrecks all the heavens that men have hoped -for. The grand old defiers of God were not afraid of an eternity of -torment. We have come to be afraid of an eternity of joy. It is not -my business here to take sides in this division between those who -like life and long novels and those who like death and short stories; -my only business is to point out that those who see in Dickens’s -unchanging characters and recurring catch-words a mere stiffness and -lack of living movement miss the point and nature of his work. His -tradition is another tradition altogether; his aim is another aim -altogether to those of the modern novelists who trace the alchemy of -experience and the autumn tints of character. He is there, like the -common people of all ages, to make deities; he is there, as I have -said, to exaggerate life in the direction of life. The spirit he at -bottom celebrates is that of two friends drinking wine together and -talking through the night. But for him they are two deathless friends -talking through an endless night and pouring wine from an inexhaustible -bottle. - -This, then, is the first firm fact to grasp about “Pickwick”--about -“Pickwick” more than about any of the other stories. It is, first -and foremost, a supernatural story. Mr. Pickwick was a fairy. So was -old Mr. Weller. This does not imply that they were suited to swing -in a trapeze of gossamer; it merely implies that if they had fallen -out of it on their heads they would not have died. But, to speak more -strictly, Mr. Samuel Pickwick is not the fairy; he is the fairy prince; -that is to say, he is the abstract wanderer and wonderer, the Ulysses -of Comedy--the half-human and half-elfin creature--human enough to -wander, human enough to wonder, but still sustained with that merry -fatalism that is natural to immortal beings--sustained by that hint -of divinity which tells him in the darkest hour that he is doomed to -live happily ever afterwards. He has set out walking to the end of the -world, but he knows he will find an inn there. - -And this brings us to the best and boldest element of originality in -“Pickwick.” It has not, I think, been observed, and it may be that -Dickens did not observe it. Certainly he did not plan it; it grew -gradually, perhaps out of the unconscious part of his soul, and warmed -the whole story like a slow fire. Of course it transformed the whole -story also; transformed it out of all likeness to itself. About this -latter point was waged one of the numberless little wars of Dickens. -It was a part of his pugnacious vanity that he refused to admit the -truth of the mildest criticism. Moreover, he used his inexhaustible -ingenuity to find an apologia that was generally an afterthought. -Instead of laughingly admitting, in answer to criticism, the glorious -improbability of Pecksniff, he retorted with a sneer, clever and very -unjust, that he was not surprised that the Pecksniffs should deny the -portrait of Pecksniff. When it was objected that the pride of old Paul -Dombey breaks as abruptly as a stick, he tried to make out that there -had been an absorbing psychological struggle going on in that gentleman -all the time, which the reader was too stupid to perceive. Which is, I -am afraid, rubbish. And so, in a similar vein, he answered those who -pointed out to him the obvious and not very shocking fact that our -sentiments about Pickwick are very different in the second part of the -book from our sentiments in the first; that we find ourselves at the -beginning setting out in the company of a farcical old fool, if not -a farcical old humbug, and that we find ourselves at the end saying -farewell to a fine old English merchant, a monument of genial sanity. -Dickens answered with the same ingenious self-justification as in the -other cases--that surely it often happened that a man met us first -arrayed in his more grotesque qualities, and that fuller acquaintance -unfolded his more serious merits. This, of course, is quite true; but -I think any honest admirer of “Pickwick” will feel that it is not an -answer. For the fault in “Pickwick” (if it be a fault) is a change, not -in the hero but in the whole atmosphere. The point is not that Pickwick -turns into a different kind of man; it is that “The Pickwick Papers” -turns into a different kind of book. And however artistic both parts -may be, this combination must, in strict art, be called inartistic. A -man is quite artistically justified in writing a tale in which a man as -cowardly as Bob Acres becomes a man as brave as Hector. But a man is -not artistically justified in writing a tale which begins in the style -of “The Rivals” and ends in the style of the “Iliad.” In other words, -we do not mind the hero changing in the course of a book; but we are -not prepared for the author changing in the course of the book. And the -author did change in the course of this book. He made, in the midst of -this book a great discovery, which was the discovery of his destiny, -or, what is more important, of his duty. That discovery turned him from -the author of “Sketches by Boz” to the author of “David Copperfield.” -And that discovery constituted the thing of which I have spoken--the -outstanding and arresting original feature in “The Pickwick Papers.” - -“Pickwick,” I have said, is a romance of adventure, and Samuel Pickwick -is the romantic adventurer. So much is indeed obvious. But the strange -and stirring discovery which Dickens made was this--that having chosen -a fat old man of the middle classes as a good thing of which to make -a butt, he found that a fat old man of the middle classes is the -very best thing of which to make a romantic adventurer. “Pickwick” -is supremely original in that it is the adventures of an old man. It -is a fairy tale in which the victor is not the youngest of the three -brothers, but one of the oldest of their uncles. The result is both -noble and new and true. There is nothing which so much needs simplicity -as adventure. And there is no one who so much possesses simplicity as -an honest and elderly man of business. For romance he is better than a -troop of young troubadours; for the swaggering young fellow anticipates -his adventures, just as he anticipates his income. Hence, both the -adventures and the income, when he comes up to them, are not there. -But a man in late middle-age has grown used to the plain necessities, -and his first holiday is a second youth. A good man, as Thackeray said -with such thorough and searching truth, grows simpler as he grows -older. Samuel Pickwick in his youth was probably an insufferable young -coxcomb. He knew then, or thought he knew, all about the confidence -tricks of swindlers like Jingle. He knew then, or thought he knew, all -about the amatory designs of sly ladies like Mrs. Bardell. But years -and real life have relieved him of this idle and evil knowledge. He -has had the high good luck in losing the follies of youth, to lose -the wisdom of youth also. Dickens has caught, in a manner at once -wild and convincing, this queer innocence of the afternoon of life. -The round, moon-like face, the round, moon-like spectacles of Samuel -Pickwick move through the tale as emblems of a certain spherical -simplicity. They are fixed in that grave surprise that may be seen in -babies; that grave surprise which is the only real happiness that is -possible to man. Pickwick’s round face is like a round and honourable -mirror, in which are reflected all the fantasies of earthly existence; -for surprise is, strictly speaking, the only kind of reflection. All -this grew gradually on Dickens. It is odd to recall to our minds the -original plan, the plan of the Nimrod Club, and the author who was to -be wholly occupied in playing practical jokes on his characters. He had -chosen (or somebody else had chosen) that corpulent old simpleton as a -person peculiarly fitted to fall down trap-doors, to shoot over butter -slides, to struggle with apple-pie beds, to be tipped out of carts and -dipped into horse-ponds. But Dickens, and Dickens only, discovered as -he went on how fitted the fat old man was to rescue ladies, to defy -tyrants, to dance, to leap, to experiment with life, to be a _deus -ex machinâ_, and even a knight-errant. Dickens made this discovery. -Dickens went into the Pickwick Club to scoff, and Dickens remained to -pray. - -Molière and his marquises are very much amused when M. Jourdain, the -fat old middle-class fellow, discovers with delight that he has been -talking prose all his life. I have often wondered whether Molière -saw how in this fact M. Jourdain towers above them all and touches -the stars. He has the freshness to enjoy a fresh fact, the freshness -to enjoy an old one. He can feel that the common thing prose is an -accomplishment like verse; and it is an accomplishment like verse; it -is the miracle of language. He can feel the subtle taste of water, and -roll it on his tongue like wine. His simple vanity and voracity, his -innocent love of living, his ignorant love of learning, are things far -fuller of romance than the weariness and foppishness of the sniggering -cavaliers. When he consciously speaks prose, he unconsciously thinks -poetry. It would be better for us all if we were as conscious that -supper is supper or that life is life, as this true romantic was that -prose is actually prose. M. Jourdain is here the type, Mr. Pickwick is -elsewhere the type, of this true and neglected thing, the romance of -the middle classes. It is the custom in our little epoch to sneer at -the middle classes. Cockney artists profess to find the bourgeoisie -dull; as if artists had any business to find anything dull. Decadents -talk contemptuously of its conventions and its set tasks; it never -occurs to them that conventions and set tasks are the very way to keep -that greenness in the grass and that redness in the roses--which they -had lost for ever. Stevenson, in his incomparable “Lantern Bearers,” -describes the ecstasy of a schoolboy in the mere fact of buttoning a -dark lantern under a dark great-coat. If you wish for that ecstasy -of the schoolboy, you must have the boy; but you must also have the -school. Strict opportunities and defined hours are the very outline -of that enjoyment. A man like Mr. Pickwick has been at school all his -life, and when he comes out he astonishes the youngsters. His heart, as -that acute psychologist, Mr. Weller, points out, had been born later -than his body. It will be remembered that Mr. Pickwick also, when on -the escapade of Winkle and Miss Allen, took immoderate pleasure in -the performances of a dark lantern which was not dark enough, and was -nothing but a nuisance to everybody. His soul also was with Stevenson’s -boys on the grey sands of Haddington, talking in the dark by the -sea. He also was of the league of the “Lantern Bearers.” Stevenson, -I remember, says that in the shops of that town they could purchase -“penny Pickwicks (that remarkable cigar).” Let us hope they smoked -them, and that the rotund ghost of Pickwick hovered over the rings of -smoke. - -Pickwick goes through life with that godlike gullibility which is -the key to all adventures. The greenhorn is the ultimate victor in -everything; it is he that gets the most out of life. Because Pickwick -is led away by Jingle, he will be led to the White Hart Inn, and -see the only Weller cleaning boots in the courtyard. Because he is -bamboozled by Dodson and Fogg, he will enter the prison house like a -paladin, and rescue the man and the woman who have wronged him most. -His soul will never starve for exploits or excitements who is wise -enough to be made a fool of. He will make himself happy in the traps -that have been laid for him; he will roll in their nets and sleep. All -doors will fly open to him who has a mildness more defiant than mere -courage. The whole is unerringly expressed in one fortunate phrase--he -will be always “taken in.” To be taken in everywhere is to see the -inside of everything. It is the hospitality of circumstance. With -torches and trumpets, like a guest, the greenhorn is taken in by Life. -And the sceptic is cast out by it. - - - - -CHAPTER V - -THE GREAT POPULARITY - - -There is one aspect of Charles Dickens which must be of interest even -to that subterranean race which does not admire his books. Even if we -are not interested in Dickens as a great event in English literature, -we must still be interested in him as a great event in English history. -If he had not his place with Fielding and Thackeray, he would still -have his place with Wat Tyler and Wilkes; for the man led a mob. He did -what no English statesman, perhaps, has really done; he called out the -people. He was popular in a sense of which we moderns have not even a -notion. In that sense there is no popularity now. There are no popular -authors to-day. We call such authors as Mr. Guy Boothby or Mr. William -Le Queux popular authors. But this is popularity altogether in a weaker -sense; not only in quantity, but in quality. The old popularity was -positive; the new is negative. There is a great deal of difference -between the eager man who wants to read a book, and the tired man who -wants a book to read. A man reading a Le Queux mystery wants to get -to the end of it. A man reading the Dickens novel wished that it might -never end. Men read a Dickens story six times because they knew it so -well. If a man can read a Le Queux story six times it is only because -he can forget it six times. In short, the Dickens novel was popular, -not because it was an unreal world, but because it was a real world; a -world in which the soul could live. The modern “shocker” at its very -best is an interlude in life. But in the days when Dickens’s work was -coming out in serial, people talked as if real life were itself the -interlude between one issue of “Pickwick” and another. - -In reaching the period of the publication of “Pickwick,” we reach this -sudden apotheosis of Dickens. Henceforward he filled the literary -world in a way hard to imagine. Fragments of that huge fashion remain -in our daily language; in the talk of every trade or public question -are embedded the wrecks of that enormous religion. Men give out the -airs of Dickens without even opening his books; just as Catholics can -live in a tradition of Christianity without having looked at the New -Testament. The man in the street has more memories of Dickens, whom he -has not read, than of Marie Corelli, whom he has. There is nothing -in any way parallel to this omnipresence and vitality in the great -comic characters of Boz. There are no modern Bumbles and Pecksniffs, -no modern Gamps and Micawbers. Mr. Rudyard Kipling (to take an author -of a higher type than those before mentioned) is called, and called -justly, a popular author; that is to say, he is widely read, greatly -enjoyed, and highly remunerated; he has achieved the paradox of at once -making poetry and making money. But let any one who wishes to see the -difference try the experiment of assuming the Kipling characters to -be common property like the Dickens characters. Let any one go into -an average parlour and allude to Strickland as he would allude to -Mr. Bumble, the Beadle. Let any one say that somebody is “a perfect -Learoyd,” as he would say “a perfect Pecksniff.” Let any one write a -comic paragraph for a halfpenny paper, and allude to Mrs. Hawksbee -instead of to Mrs. Gamp. He will soon discover that the modern world -has forgotten its own fiercest booms more completely than it has -forgotten this formless tradition from its fathers. The mere dregs -of it come to more than any contemporary excitement; the gleaning of -the grapes of “Pickwick” is more than the whole vintage of “Soldiers -Three.” There is one instance, and I think only one, of an exception -to this generalization; there is one figure in our popular literature -which would really be recognized by the populace. Ordinary men would -understand you if you referred currently to Sherlock Holmes. Sir -Arthur Conan Doyle would no doubt be justified in rearing his head -to the stars, remembering that Sherlock Holmes is the only really -familiar figure in modern fiction. But let him droop that head again -with a gentle sadness, remembering that if Sherlock Holmes is the only -familiar figure in modern fiction, Sherlock Holmes is also the only -familiar figure in the Sherlock Holmes tales. Not many people could say -offhand what was the name of the owner of Silver Blaze, or whether Mrs. -Watson was dark or fair. But if Dickens had written the Sherlock Holmes -stories, every character in them would have been equally arresting and -memorable. A Sherlock Holmes would have cooked the dinner for Sherlock -Holmes; a Sherlock Holmes would have driven his cab. If Dickens brought -in a man merely to carry a letter, he had time for a touch or two, and -made him a giant. Dickens not only conquered the world, he conquered -it with minor characters. Mr. John Smauker, the servant of Mr. Cyrus -Bantam, though he merely passes across the stage, is almost as vivid to -us as Mr. Samuel Weller, the servant of Mr. Samuel Pickwick. The young -man with the lumpy forehead, who only says “Esker” to Mr. Podsnap’s -foreign gentleman, is as good as Mr. Podsnap himself. They appear only -for a fragment of time, but they belong to eternity. We have them only -for an instant, but they have us for ever. - -In dealing with Dickens, then, we are dealing with a man whose public -success was a marvel and almost a monstrosity. And here I perceive -that my friend, the purely artistic critic, primed with Flaubert -and Turgenev, can contain himself no longer. He leaps to his feet, -upsetting his cup of cocoa, and asks contemptuously what all this -has to do with criticism. “Why begin your study of an author,” he -says, “with trash about popularity? Boothby is popular, and Le Queux -is popular, and Mother Siegel is popular. If Dickens was even more -popular, it may only mean that Dickens was even worse. The people -like bad literature. If your object is to show that Dickens was good -literature, you should rather apologize for his popularity, and try to -explain it away. You should seek to show that Dickens’s work was good -literature, although it was popular. Yes, that is your task, to prove -that Dickens was admirable, although he was admired!” - -I ask the artistic critic to be patient for a little and to believe -that I have a serious reason for registering this historic popularity. -To that we shall come presently. But as a manner of approach I may -perhaps ask leave to examine this actual and fashionable statement, -to which I have supposed him to have recourse--the statement that -the people like bad literature, and even like literature because it -is bad. This way of stating the thing is an error, and in that error -lies matter of much import to Dickens and his destiny in letters. The -public does not like bad literature. The public likes a certain kind -of literature and likes that kind of literature even when it is bad -better than another kind of literature even when it is good. Nor is -this unreasonable; for the line between different types of literature -is as real as the line between tears and laughter; and to tell people -who can only get bad comedy that you have some first-class tragedy is -as irrational as to offer a man who is shivering over weak warm coffee -a really superior sort of ice. - -Ordinary people dislike the delicate modern work, not because it is -good or because it is bad, but because it is not the thing that they -asked for. If, for instance, you find them pent in sterile streets -and hungering for adventure and a violent secrecy, and if you then -give them their choice between “A Study in Scarlet,” a good detective -story, and “The Autobiography of Mark Rutherford,” a good psychological -monologue, no doubt they will prefer “A Study in Scarlet.” But they -will not do so because “The Autobiography of Mark Rutherford” is a -very good monologue, but because it is evidently a very poor detective -story. They will be indifferent to “Les Aveugles,” not because it is -good drama, but because it is bad melodrama. They do not like good -introspective sonnets; but neither do they like bad introspective -sonnets, of which there are many. When they walk behind the brass of -the Salvation Army band instead of listening to harmonies at Queen’s -Hall, it is always assumed that they prefer bad music. But it may be -merely that they prefer military music, music marching down the open -street, and that if Dan Godfrey’s band could be smitten with salvation -and lead them, they would like that even better. And while they might -easily get more satisfaction out of a screaming article in _The War -Cry_ than out of a page of Emerson about the Over-soul, this would -not be because the page of Emerson is another and superior kind of -literature. It would be because the page of Emerson is another (and -inferior) kind of religion. - -Dickens stands first as a defiant monument of what happens when a great -literary genius has a literary taste akin to that of the community. -For this kinship was deep and spiritual. Dickens was not like our -ordinary demagogues and journalists. Dickens did not write what the -people wanted. Dickens wanted what the people wanted. And with this -was connected that other fact which must never be forgotten, and which -I have more than once insisted on, that Dickens and his school had a -hilarious faith in democracy and thought of the service of it as a -sacred priesthood. Hence there was this vital point in his popularism, -that there was no condescension in it. The belief that the rabble will -only read rubbish can be read between the lines of all our contemporary -writers, even of those writers whose rubbish the rabble reads. Mr. -Fergus Hume has no more respect for the populace than Mr. George Moore. -The only difference lies between those writers who will consent to talk -down to the people, and those writers who will not consent to talk down -to the people. But Dickens never talked down to the people. He talked -up to the people. He approached the people like a deity and poured out -his riches and his blood. This is what makes the immortal bond between -him and the masses of men. He had not merely produced something they -could understand, but he took it seriously, and toiled and agonized to -produce it. They were not only enjoying one of the best writers, they -were enjoying the best he could do. His raging and sleepless nights, -his wild walks in the darkness, his note-books crowded, his nerves in -rags, all this extraordinary output was but a fit sacrifice to the -ordinary man. He climbed towards the lower classes. He panted upwards -on weary wings to reach the heaven of the poor. - -His power, then, lay in the fact that he expressed with an energy and -brilliancy quite uncommon the things close to the common mind. But with -this mere phrase, the common mind, we collide with a current error. -Commonness and the common mind are now generally spoken of as meaning -in some manner inferiority and the inferior mind; the mind of the mere -mob. But the common mind means the mind of all the artists and heroes; -or else it would not be common. Plato had the common mind; Dante had -the common mind; or that mind was not common. Commonness means the -quality common to the saint and the sinner, to the philosopher and the -fool; and it was this that Dickens grasped and developed. In everybody -there is a certain thing that loves babies, that fears death, that -likes sunlight: that thing enjoys Dickens. And everybody does not mean -uneducated crowds; everybody means everybody: everybody means Mrs. -Meynell. This lady, a cloistered and fastidious writer, has written -one of the best eulogies of Dickens that exist, an essay in praise -of his pungent perfection of epithet. And when I say that everybody -understands Dickens I do not mean that he is suited to the untaught -intelligence. I mean that he is so plain that even scholars can -understand him. - -The best expression of the fact, however, is to be found in noting -the two things in which he is most triumphant. In order of artistic -value, next after his humour, comes his horror. And both his humour and -his horror are of a kind strictly to be called human; that is, they -belong to the basic part of us, below the lowest roots of our variety. -His horror for instance is a healthy churchyard horror, a fear of the -grotesque defamation called death; and this every man has, even if he -also has the more delicate and depraved fears that come of an evil -spiritual outlook. We may be afraid of a fine shade with Henry James; -that is, we may be afraid of the world. We may be afraid of a taut -silence with Maeterlinck; that is, we may be afraid of our own souls. -But every one will certainly be afraid of a Cock Lane Ghost, including -Henry James and Maeterlinck. This latter is literally a mortal fear, -a fear of death; it is not the immortal fear, or fear of damnation, -which belongs to all the more refined intellects of our day. In a -word, Dickens does, in the exact sense, make the flesh creep; he does -not, like the decadents, make the soul crawl. And the creeping of the -flesh on being reminded of its fleshly failure is a strictly universal -thing which we can all feel, while some of us are as yet uninstructed -in the art of spiritual crawling. In the same way the Dickens mirth is -a part of man and universal. All men can laugh at broad humour, even -the subtle humourists. Even the modern _flâneur_, who can smile at a -particular combination of green and yellow, would laugh at Mr. Lammle’s -request for Mr. Fledgeby’s nose. In a word--the common things are -common--even to the uncommon people. - -These two primary dispositions of Dickens, to make the flesh creep -and to make the sides ache, were a sort of twins of his spirit; they -were never far apart and the fact of their affinity is interestingly -exhibited in the first two novels. - -Generally he mixed the two up in a book and mixed a great many other -things with them. As a rule he cared little if he kept six stories -of quite different colours running in the same book. The effect was -sometimes similar to that of playing six tunes at once. He does not -mind the coarse tragic figure of Jonas Chuzzlewit crossing the mental -stage which is full of the allegorical pantomime of Eden, Mr. Chollop -and _The Watertoast Gazette_, a scene which is as much of a satire -as “Gulliver,” and nearly as much of a fairy tale. He does not mind -binding up a rather pompous sketch of prostitution in the same book -with an adorable impossibility like Bunsby. But “Pickwick” is so far a -coherent thing that it is coherently comic and consistently rambling. -And as a consequence his next book was, upon the whole, coherently -and consistently horrible. As his natural turn for terrors was kept -down in “Pickwick,” so his natural turn for joy and laughter is kept -down in “Oliver Twist.” In “Oliver Twist” the smoke of the thieves’ -kitchen hangs over the whole tale, and the shadow of Fagin falls -everywhere. The little lamp-lit rooms of Mr. Brownlow and Rose Maylie -are to all appearance purposely kept subordinate, a mere foil to the -foul darkness without. It was a strange and appropriate accident that -Cruikshank and not “Phiz” should have illustrated this book. There was -about Cruikshank’s art a kind of cramped energy which is almost the -definition of the criminal mind. His drawings have a dark strength: -yet he does not only draw morbidly, he draws meanly. In the doubled-up -figure and frightful eyes of Fagin in the condemned cell there is not -only a baseness of subject; there is a kind of baseness in the very -technique of it. It is not drawn with the free lines of a free man; -it has the half-witted secrecies of a hunted thief. It does not look -merely like a picture of Fagin; it looks like a picture by Fagin. -Among these dark and detestable plates there is one which has with a -kind of black directness, the dreadful poetry that does inhere in the -story, stumbling as it often is. It represents Oliver asleep at an open -window in the house of one of his humaner patrons. And outside the -window, but as big and close as if they were in the room stand Fagin -and the foul-faced Monk, staring at him with dark monstrous visages and -great, white wicked eyes, in the style of the simple deviltry of the -draughtsman. The very _naïveté_ of the horror is horrifying: the very -woodenness of the two wicked men seems to make them worse than mere -men who are wicked. But this picture of big devils at the window-sill -does express, as has been suggested above, the thread of poetry in -the whole thing; the sense, that is, of the thieves as a kind of -army of devils compassing earth and sky, crying for Oliver’s soul and -besieging the house in which he is barred for safety. In this matter -there is, I think, a difference between the author and the illustrator. -In Cruikshank there was surely something morbid; but, sensitive and -sentimental as Dickens was, there was nothing morbid in him. He had, -as Stevenson had, more of the mere boy’s love of suffocating stories -of blood and darkness; of skulls, of gibbets, of all the things, in -a word, that are sombre without being sad. There is a ghastly joy in -remembering our boyish reading about Sikes and his flight; especially -about the voice of that unbearable pedlar which went on in a monotonous -and maddening sing-song, “will wash out grease-stains, mud-stains, -blood-stains,” until Sikes fled almost screaming. For this boyish -mixture of appetite and repugnance there is a good popular phrase, -“supping on horrors.” Dickens supped on horrors as he supped on -Christmas pudding. He supped on horrors because he was an optimist and -could sup on anything. There was no saner or simpler schoolboy than -Traddles, who covered all his books with skeletons. - -“Oliver Twist” had begun in Bentley’s _Miscellany_, which Dickens -edited in 1837. It was interrupted by a blow that for the moment broke -the author’s spirit and seemed to have broken his heart. His wife’s -sister, Mary Hogarth, died suddenly. To Dickens his wife’s family seems -to have been like his own; his affections were heavily committed to the -sisters, and of this one he was peculiarly fond. All his life, through -much conceit and sometimes something bordering on selfishness, we can -feel the redeeming note of an almost tragic tenderness; he was a man -who could really have died of love or sorrow. He took up the work of -“Oliver Twist” again later in the year, and finished it at the end -of 1838. His work was incessant and almost bewildering. In 1838 he -had already brought out the first number of “Nicholas Nickleby.” But -the great popularity went booming on; the whole world was roaring for -books by Dickens, and more books by Dickens, and Dickens was labouring -night and day like a factory. Among other things he edited the “Memoirs -of Grimaldi.” The incident is only worth mentioning for the sake of -one more example of the silly ease with which Dickens was drawn by -criticism and the clever ease with which he managed, in these small -squabbles, to defend himself. Somebody mildly suggested that, after -all, Dickens had never known Grimaldi. Dickens was down on him like a -thunderbolt, sardonically asking how close an intimacy Lord Braybrooke -had with Mr. Samuel Pepys. - -“Nicholas Nickleby” is the most typical perhaps of the tone of his -earlier works. It is in form a very rambling, old-fashioned romance, -the kind of romance in which the hero is only a convenience for the -frustration of the villain. Nicholas is what is called in theatricals a -stick. But any stick is good enough to beat a Squeers with. That strong -thwack, that simplified energy is the whole object of such a story; -and the whole of this tale is full of a kind of highly picturesque -platitude. The wicked aristocrats, Sir Mulberry Hawk, Lord Frederick -Verisopht and the rest are inadequate versions of the fashionable -profligate. But this is not (as some suppose) because Dickens in his -vulgarity could not comprehend the refinement of patrician vice. -There is no idea more vulgar or more ignorant than the notion that a -gentleman is generally what is called refined. The error of the Hawk -conception is that, if anything, he is too refined. Real aristocratic -blackguards do not swagger and rant so well. A real fast baronet would -not have defied Nicholas in the tavern with so much oratorical dignity. -A real fast baronet would probably have been choked with apoplectic -embarrassment and said nothing at all. But Dickens read into this -aristocracy a grandiloquence and a natural poetry which, like all -melodrama, is really the precious jewel of the poor. - -But the book contains something which is much more Dickensian. It is -exquisitely characteristic of Dickens that the truly great achievement -of the story is the person who delays the story. Mrs. Nickleby with -her beautiful mazes of memory does her best to prevent the story of -Nicholas Nickleby from being told. And she does well. There is no -particular necessity that we should know what happens to Madeline -Bray. There is a desperate and crying necessity that we should know -that Mrs. Nickleby once had a foot-boy who had a wart on his nose and -a driver who had a green shade over his left eye. If Mrs. Nickleby -is a fool, she is one of those fools who are wiser than the world. -She stands for a great truth which we must not forget; the truth that -experience is not in real life a saddening thing at all. The people who -have had misfortunes are generally the people who love to talk about -them. Experience is really one of the gaieties of old age, one of its -dissipations. Mere memory becomes a kind of debauch. Experience may be -disheartening to those who are foolish enough to try to co-ordinate it -and to draw deductions from it. But to those happy souls, like Mrs. -Nickleby, to whom relevancy is nothing, the whole of their past life -is like an inexhaustible fairyland. Just as we take a rambling walk -because we know that a whole district is beautiful, so they indulge a -rambling mind because they know that a whole existence is interesting. -A boy does not plunge into his future more romantically and at random, -than they plunge into their past. - -Another gleam in the book is Mr. Mantalini. Of him, as of all the -really great comic characters of Dickens, it is impossible to speak -with any critical adequacy. Perfect absurdity is a direct thing, -like physical pain, or a strong smell. A joke is a fact. However -indefensible it is it cannot be attacked. However defensible it is -it cannot be defended. That Mr. Mantalini should say in praising -the “outline” of his wife, “The two Countesses had no outlines, -and the Dowager’s was a demd outline,” this can only be called an -unanswerable absurdity. You may try to analyse it, as Charles Lamb -did the indefensible joke about the hare; you may dwell for a moment -on the dark distinctions between the negative disqualification of the -Countesses and the positive disqualification of the Dowager, but you -will not capture the violent beauty of it in any way. “She will be -a lovely widow; I shall be a body. Some handsome women will cry; she -will laugh demnedly.” This vision of demoniac heartlessness has the -same defiant finality. I mention the matter here, but it has to be -remembered in connection with all the comic masterpieces of Dickens. -Dickens has greatly suffered with the critics precisely through this -stunning simplicity in his best work. The critic is called upon to -describe his sensations while enjoying Mantalini and Micawber, and he -can no more describe them than he can describe a blow in the face. Thus -Dickens, in this self-conscious, analytical and descriptive age, loses -both ways. He is doubly unfitted for the best modern criticism. His bad -work is below that criticism. His good work is above it. - -But gigantic as were Dickens’s labours, gigantic as were the exactions -from him, his own plans were more gigantic still. He had the type of -mind that wishes to do every kind of work at once; to do everybody’s -work as well as its own. There floated before him a vision of a -monstrous magazine, entirely written by himself. It is true that -when this scheme came to be discussed, he suggested that other pens -might be occasionally employed; but, reading between the lines, it is -sufficiently evident that he thought of the thing as a kind of vast -multiplication of himself, with Dickens as editor, opening letters, -Dickens as leader-writer writing leaders, Dickens as reporter reporting -meetings, Dickens as reviewer reviewing books, Dickens, for all I know, -as office-boy, opening and shutting doors. This serial, of which he -spoke to Messrs. Chapman and Hall, began and broke off and remains as a -colossal fragment bound together under the title of “Master Humphrey’s -Clock.” One characteristic thing he wished to have in the periodical. -He suggested an Arabian Nights of London, in which Gog and Magog, -the giants of the city, should give forth chronicles as enormous as -themselves. He had a taste for these schemes or frameworks for many -tales. He made and abandoned many; many he half-fulfilled. I strongly -suspect that he meant Major Jackman, in “Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings” and -“Mrs. Lirriper’s Legacy,” to start a series of studies of that lady’s -lodgers, a kind of history of No. 81 Norfolk Street, Strand. “The Seven -Poor Travellers” was planned for seven stories; we will not say seven -poor stories. Dickens had meant, probably, to write a tale for each -article of “Somebody’s Luggage”: he only got as far as the hat and the -boots. This gigantesque scale of literary architecture, huge and yet -curiously cosy, is characteristic of his spirit, fond of size and -yet fond of comfort. He liked to have story within story, like room -within room of some labyrinthine but comfortable castle. In this spirit -he wished “Master Humphrey’s Clock” to begin, and to be a big frame -or bookcase for numberless novels. The clock started; but the clock -stopped. - -In the prologue by Master Humphrey reappears Mr. Pickwick and Sam -Weller, and of that resurrection many things have been said, chiefly -expressions of a reasonable regret. Doubtless they do not add much to -their author’s reputation, but they add a great deal to their author’s -pleasure. It was ingrained in him to wish to meet old friends. All his -characters are, so to speak, designed to be old friends; in a sense -every Dickens character is an old friend, even when he first appears. -He comes to us mellow out of many implied interviews, and carries the -firelight on his face. Dickens was simply pleased to meet Pickwick -again, and being pleased, he made the old man too comfortable to be -amusing. - -But “Master Humphrey’s Clock” is now scarcely known except as the -shell of one of the well-known novels. “The Old Curiosity Shop” was -published in accordance with the original “Clock” scheme. Perhaps the -most typical thing about it is the title. There seems no reason in -particular, at the first and most literal glance, why the story should -be called after the Old Curiosity Shop. Only two of the characters have -anything to do with such a shop, and they leave us for ever in the -first few pages. It is as if Thackeray had called the whole novel of -“Vanity Fair” “Miss Pinkerton’s Academy.” It is as if Scott had given -the whole story of “The Antiquary” the title of “The Hawes Inn.” But -when we feel the situation with more fidelity we realize that this -title is something in the nature of a key to the whole Dickens romance. -His tales always started from some splendid hint in the streets. And -shops, perhaps the most poetical of all things, often set off his fancy -galloping. Every shop, in fact, was to him the door of romance. Among -all the huge serial schemes of which we have spoken, it is a matter of -wonder that he never started an endless periodical called “The Street,” -and divided it into shops. He could have written an exquisite romance -called “The Baker’s Shop”; another called “The Chemist’s Shop”; another -called “The Oil Shop,” to keep company with “The Old Curiosity Shop.” -Some incomparable baker he invented and forgot. Some gorgeous chemist -might have been. Some more than mortal oilman is lost to us for ever. -This Old Curiosity Shop he did happen to linger by: its tale he did -happen to tell. - -Around “Little Nell,” of course, a controversy raged and rages; some -implored Dickens not to kill her at the end of the story: some regret -that he did not kill her at the beginning. To me the chief interest -in this young person lies in the fact that she is an example, and the -most celebrated example of what must have been, I think, a personal -peculiarity, perhaps a personal experience of Dickens. There is, of -course, no paradox at all in saying that if we find in a good book a -wildly impossible character it is very probable indeed that it was -copied from a real person. This is one of the commonplaces of good art -criticism. For although people talk of the restraints of fact and the -freedom of fiction, the case for most artistic purposes is quite the -other way. Nature is as free as air: art is forced to look probable. -There may be a million things that do happen, and yet only one thing -that convinces us as likely to happen. Out of a million possible things -there may be only one appropriate thing. I fancy, therefore, that many -stiff, unconvincing characters are copied from the wild freak-show of -real life. And in many parts of Dickens’s work there is evidence of -some peculiar affection on his part for a strange sort of little girl; -a little girl with a premature sense of responsibility and duty; a sort -of saintly precocity. Did he know some little girl of this kind? Did -she die, perhaps, and remain in his memory in colours too ethereal and -pale? In any case there are a great number of them in his works. Little -Dorrit was one of them, and Florence Dombey with her brother, and even -Agnes in infancy; and, of course, Little Nell. And, in any case, one -thing is evident; whatever charm these children may have they have not -the charm of childhood. They are not little children: they are “little -mothers.” The beauty and divinity in a child lie in his not being -worried, not being conscientious, not being like Little Nell. Little -Nell has never any of the sacred bewilderment of a baby. She never -wears that face, beautiful but almost half-witted, with which a real -child half understands that there is evil in the universe. - -As usual, however, little as the story has to do with the title, the -splendid and satisfying pages have even less to do with the story. -Dick Swiveller is perhaps the noblest of all the noble creations of -Dickens. He has all the overwhelming absurdity of Mantalini, with the -addition of being human and credible, for he knows he is absurd. His -high-falutin is not done because he seriously thinks it right and -proper, like that of Mr. Snodgrass, nor is it done because he thinks it -will serve his turn, like that of Mr. Pecksniff, for both these beliefs -are improbable; it is done because he really loves high-falutin, -because he has a lonely literary pleasure in exaggerative language. -Great draughts of words are to him like great draughts of wine--pungent -and yet refreshing, light and yet leaving him in a glow. In unerring -instinct for the perfect folly of a phrase he has no equal, even -among the giants of Dickens. “I am sure,” says Miss Wackles, when she -had been flirting with Cheggs, the market-gardener, and reduced Mr. -Swiveller to Byronic renunciation, “I am sure I’m very sorry if--” -“Sorry,” said Mr. Swiveller, “sorry in the possession of a Cheggs!” -The abyss of bitterness is unfathomable. Scarcely less precious is the -pose of Mr. Swiveller when he imitates the stage brigand. After crying, -“Some wine here! Ho!” he hands the flagon to himself with profound -humility, and receives it haughtily. Perhaps the very best scene in -the book is that between Mr. Swiveller and the single gentleman with -whom he endeavours to remonstrate for having remained in bed all day: -“We cannot have single gentlemen coming into the place and sleeping -like double gentlemen without paying extra.... An equal amount of -slumber was never got out of one bed, and if you want to sleep like -that you must pay for a double-bedded room.” His relations with the -Marchioness are at once purely romantic and purely genuine; there -is nothing even of Dickens’s legitimate exaggerations about them. A -shabby, larky, good-natured clerk would, as a matter of fact, spend -hours in the society of a little servant girl if he found her about the -house. It would arise partly from a dim kindliness, and partly from -that mysterious instinct which is sometimes called, mistakenly, a love -of low company--that mysterious instinct which makes so many men of -pleasure find something soothing in the society of uneducated people, -particularly uneducated women. It is the instinct which accounts for -the otherwise unaccountable popularity of barmaids. - -And still the pot of that huge popularity boiled. In 1841 another novel -was demanded, and “Barnaby Rudge” supplied. It is chiefly of interest -as an embodiment of that other element in Dickens, the picturesque or -even the pictorial. Barnaby Rudge, the idiot with his rags and his -feathers and his raven, the bestial hangman, the blind mob--all make -a picture, though they hardly make a novel. One touch there is in it -of the richer and more humorous Dickens, the boy-conspirator, Mr. Sim -Tappertit. But he might have been treated with more sympathy--with as -much sympathy, for instance, as Mr. Dick Swiveller; for he is only the -romantic guttersnipe, the bright boy at the particular age when it is -most fascinating to found a secret society and most difficult to keep -a secret. And if ever there was a romantic guttersnipe on earth it -was Charles Dickens. “Barnaby Rudge” is no more an historical novel -than Sim’s secret league was a political movement; but they are both -beautiful creations. When all is said, however, the main reason for -mentioning the work here is that it is the next bubble in the pot, the -next thing that burst out of that whirling, seething head. The tide -of it rose and smoked and sang till it boiled over the pot of Britain -and poured over all America. In the January of 1842 he set out for the -United States. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -DICKENS AND AMERICA - - -The essential of Dickens’s character was the conjunction of common -sense with uncommon sensibility. The two things are not, indeed, in -such an antithesis as is commonly imagined. Great English literary -authorities, such as Jane Austen and Mr. Chamberlain, have put the word -“sense” and the word “sensibility” in a kind of opposition to each -other. But not only are they not opposite words: they are actually -the same word. They both mean receptiveness or approachability by -the facts outside us. To have a sense of colour is the same as to -have a sensibility to colour. A person who realizes that beef-steaks -are appetizing shows his sensibility. A person who realizes that -moonrise is romantic shows his sense. But it is not difficult to see -the meaning and need of the popular distinction between sensibility -and sense, particularly in the form called common sense. Common -sense is a sensibility duly distributed in all normal directions; -sensibility has come to mean a specialized sensibility in one. This -is unfortunate, for it is not the sensibility that is bad, but the -specializing; that is, the lack of sensibility to everything else. A -young lady who stays out all night to look at the stars should not be -blamed for her sensibility to starlight, but for her insensibility to -other people. A poet who recites his own verses from ten to five with -the tears rolling down his face should decidedly be rebuked for his -lack of sensibility--his lack of sensibility to those grand rhythms -of the social harmony, crudely called manners. For all politeness is -a long poem, since it is full of recurrences. This balance of all the -sensibilities we call sense; and it is in this capacity that it becomes -of great importance as an attribute of the character of Dickens. - -Dickens, I repeat, had common sense and uncommon sensibility. That is -to say, the proportion of interests in him was about the same as that -of an ordinary man, but he felt all of them more excitedly. This is a -distinction not easy for us to keep in mind, because we hear to-day -chiefly of two types, the dull man who likes ordinary things mildly, -and the extraordinary man who likes extraordinary things wildly. But -Dickens liked quite ordinary things; he merely made an extraordinary -fuss about them. His excitement was sometimes like an epileptic fit; -but it must not be confused with the fury of the man of one idea -or one line of ideas. He had the excess of the eccentric, but not -the defects, the narrowness. Even when he raved like a maniac he did -not rave like a monomaniac. He had no particular spot of sensibility -or spot of insensibility: he was merely a normal man minus a normal -self-command. He had no special point of mental pain or repugnance, -like Ruskin’s horror of steam and iron, or Mr. Bernard Shaw’s permanent -irritation against romantic love. He was annoyed at the ordinary -annoyances: only he was more annoyed than was necessary. He did not -desire strange delights, blue wine or black women with Baudelaire, or -cruel sights east of Suez with Mr. Kipling. He wanted what a healthy -man wants, only he was ill with wanting it. To understand him, in -a word, we must keep well in mind the medical distinction between -delicacy and disease. Perhaps we shall comprehend it and him more -clearly if we think of a woman rather than a man. There was much that -was feminine about Dickens, and nothing more so than this abnormal -normality. A woman is often, in comparison with a man, at once more -sensitive and more sane. - -This distinction must be especially remembered in all his quarrels. -And it must be most especially remembered in what may be called his -great quarrel with America, which we have now to approach. The whole -matter is so typical of Dickens’s attitude to everything and anything, -and especially of Dickens’s attitude to anything political, that I may -ask permission to approach the matter by another, a somewhat long and -curving avenue. - -Common sense is a fairy thread, thin and faint, and as easily lost -as gossamer. Dickens (in large matters) never lost it. Take, as an -example, his political tone or drift throughout his life. His views, of -course, may have been right or wrong; the reforms he supported may have -been successful or otherwise: that is not a matter for this book. But -if we compare him with the other men that wanted the same things (or -the other men that wanted the other things) we feel a startling absence -of cant, a startling sense of humanity as it is, and of the eternal -weakness. He was a fierce democrat, but in his best vein he laughed at -the cocksure Radical of common life, the red-faced man who said, “Prove -it!” when anybody said anything. He fought for the right to elect; -but he would not whitewash elections. He believed in parliamentary -government; but he did not, like our contemporary newspapers, pretend -that parliament is something much more heroic and imposing than it -is. He fought for the rights of the grossly oppressed Nonconformists; -but he spat out of his mouth the unction of that too easy seriousness -with which they oiled everything, and held up to them like a horrible -mirror the foul fat face of Chadband. He saw that Mr. Podsnap thought -too little of places outside England. But he saw that Mrs. Jellaby -thought too much of them. In the last book he wrote he gives us, in -Mr. Honeythunder, a hateful and wholesome picture of all the Liberal -catchwords pouring out of one illiberal man. But perhaps the best -evidence of this steadiness and sanity is the fact that, dogmatic as -he was, he never tied himself to any passing dogma: he never got into -any _cul de sac_ of civic or economic fanaticism: he went down the -broad road of the Revolution. He never admitted that economically, -we must make hells of workhouses, any more than Rousseau would have -admitted it. He never said the State had no right to teach children -or save their bones, any more than Danton would have said it. He was -a fierce Radical; but he was never a Manchester Radical. He used the -test of Utility, but he was never a Utilitarian. While economists were -writing soft words he wrote “Hard Times,” which Macaulay called “sullen -Socialism,” because it was not complacent Whiggism. But Dickens was -never a Socialist any more than he was an Individualist; and, whatever -else he was, he certainly was not sullen. He was not even a politician -of any kind. He was simply a man of very clear, airy judgment on -things that did not inflame his private temper, and he perceived that -any theory that tried to run the living State entirely on one force -and motive was probably nonsense. Whenever the Liberal philosophy had -embedded in it something hard and heavy and lifeless, by an instinct he -dropped it out. He was too romantic, perhaps, but he would have to do -only with real things. He may have cared too much about Liberty. But he -cared nothing about “Laissez faire.” - -Now, among many interests of his contact with America this interest -emerges as infinitely the largest and most striking, that it gave -a final example of this queer, unexpected coolness and candour of -his, this abrupt and sensational rationality. Apart altogether from -any question of the accuracy of his picture of America, the American -indignation was particularly natural and inevitable. For the large -circumstances of the age must be taken into account. At the end of -the previous epoch the whole of our Christian civilization had been -startled from its sleep by trumpets to take sides in a bewildering -Armageddon, often with eyes still misty. Germany and Austria found -themselves on the side of the old order, France and America on the -side of the new. England, as at the Reformation, took up eventually -a dark middle position, maddeningly difficult to define. She created -a democracy, but she kept an aristocracy: she reformed the House -of Commons, but left the magistracy (as it is still) a mere league -of gentlemen against the world. But underneath all this doubt and -compromise there was in England a great and perhaps growing mass of -dogmatic democracy; certainly thousands, probably millions expected -a Republic in fifty years. And for these the first instinct was -obvious. The first instinct was to look across the Atlantic to where -lay a part of ourselves already Republican, the van of the advancing -English on the road to liberty. Nearly all the great Liberals of the -nineteenth century enormously idealized America. On the other hand to -the Americans, fresh from their first epic of arms, the defeated mother -country, with its coronets and county magistrates, was only a broken -feudal keep. - -So much is self-evident. But nearly halfway through the nineteenth -century there came out of England the voice of a violent satirist. -In its political quality it seemed like the half-choked cry of -the frustrated republic. It had no patience with the pretence that -England was already free, that we had gained all that was valuable -from the Revolution. It poured a cataract of contempt on the so-called -working compromises of England, on the oligarchic cabinets, on the two -artificial parties, on the government offices, on the J.P.’s, on the -vestries, on the voluntary charities. This satirist was Dickens, and -it must be remembered that he was not only fierce, but uproariously -readable. He really damaged the things he struck at, a very rare thing. -He stepped up to the grave official of the vestry, really trusted by -the rulers, really feared like a god by the poor, and he tied round -his neck a name that choked him; never again now can he be anything -but Bumble. He confronted the fine old English gentleman who gives his -patriotic services for nothing as a local magistrate, and he nailed -him up as Nupkins, an owl in open day. For to this satire there is -literally no answer; it cannot be denied that a man like Nupkins can be -and is a magistrate, so long as we adopt the amazing method of letting -the rich man of a district actually be the judge in it. We can only -avoid the vision of the fact by shutting our eyes, and imagining the -nicest rich man we can think of; and that, of course, is what we do. -But Dickens, in this matter, was merely realistic; he merely asked us -to look on Nupkins, on the wild, strange thing that we had made. Thus -Dickens seemed to see England not at all as the country where freedom -slowly broadened down from precedent to precedent, but as a rubbish -heap of seventeenth century bad habits abandoned by everybody else. -That is, he looked at England almost with the eyes of an American -democrat. - -And so, when the voice, swelling in volume, reached America and the -Americans, the Americans said, “Here is a man who will hurry the old -country along, and tip her kings and beadles into the sea. Let him come -here, and we will show him a race of free men such as he dreams of, -alive upon the ancient earth. Let him come here and tell the English -of the divine democracy towards which he drives them. There he has -a monarchy and an oligarchy to make game of. Here is a republic for -him to praise.” It seemed, indeed, a very natural sequel, that having -denounced undemocratic England as the wilderness, he should announce -democratic America as the promised land. Any ordinary person would have -prophesied that as he had pushed his rage at the old order almost to -the edge of rant, he would push his encomium of the new order almost -to the edge of cant. Amid a roar of republican idealism, compliments, -hope, and anticipatory gratitude, the great democrat entered the -great democracy. He looked about him; he saw a complete America, -unquestionably progressive, unquestionably self-governing. Then, with -a more than American coolness, and a more than American impudence, he -sat down and wrote “Martin Chuzzlewit.” That tricky and perverse sanity -of his had mutinied again. Common sense is a wild thing, savage, and -beyond rules; and it had turned on them and rent them. - -The main course of action was as follows; and it is right to record -it before we speak of the justice of it. When I speak of his sitting -down and writing “Martin Chuzzlewit,” I use, of course, an elliptical -expression. He wrote the notes of the American part of “Martin -Chuzzlewit” while he was still in America; but it was a later decision -presumably that such impressions should go into a book, and it was -little better than an afterthought that they should go into “Martin -Chuzzlewit.” Dickens had an uncommonly bad habit (artistically -speaking) of altering a story in the middle as he did in the case -of “Our Mutual Friend.” And it is on record that he only sent young -Martin to America because he did not know what else to do with him, -and because (to say truth) the sales were falling off. But the first -action, which Americans regarded as an equally hostile one, was the -publication of “American Notes,” the history of which should first be -given. His notion of visiting America had come to him as a very vague -notion, even before the appearance of “The Old Curiosity Shop.” But -it had grown in him through the whole ensuing period in the plaguing -and persistent way that ideas did grow in him and live with him. He -contended against the idea in a certain manner. He had much to induce -him to contend against it. Dickens was by this time not only a husband, -but a father, the father of several children, and their existence made -a difficulty in itself. His wife, he said, cried whenever the project -was mentioned. But it was a point in him that he could never, with any -satisfaction, part with a project. He had that restless optimism, that -kind of nervous optimism, which would always tend to say “Yes”; which -is stricken with an immortal repentance, if ever it says “No.” The idea -of seeing America might be doubtful, but the idea of not seeing America -was dreadful. “To miss this opportunity would be a sad thing,” he says. -“... God willing, I think it _must_ be managed somehow!” It was managed -somehow. First of all he wanted to take his children as well as his -wife. Final obstacles to this fell upon him, but they did not frustrate -him. A serious illness fell on him; but that did not frustrate him. He -sailed for America in 1842. - -He landed in America, and he liked it. As John Forster very truly -says, it is due to him, as well as to the great country that welcomed -him, that his first good impression should be recorded, and that it -should be “considered independently of any modification it afterwards -underwent.” But the modification it afterwards underwent was, as I have -said above, simply a sudden kicking against cant, that is, against -repetition. He was quite ready to believe that all Americans were -free men. He would have believed it if they had not all told him so. -He was quite prepared to be pleased with America. He would have been -pleased with it if it had not been so much pleased with itself. The -“modification” his view underwent did not arise from any “modification” -of America as he first saw it. His admiration did not change because -America changed. It changed because America did not change. The Yankees -enraged him at last, not by saying different things, but by saying the -same things. They were a republic; they were a new and vigorous nation; -it seemed natural that they should say so to a famous foreigner first -stepping on to their shore. But it seemed maddening that they should -say so to each other in every car and drinking saloon from morning till -night. It was not that the Americans in any way ceased from praising -him. It was rather that they went on praising him. It was not merely -that their praises of him sounded beautiful when he first heard them. -Their praises of themselves sounded beautiful when he first heard them. -That democracy was grand, and that Charles Dickens was a remarkable -person, were two truths that he certainly never doubted to his dying -day. But, as I say, it was a soulless repetition that stung his sense -of humour out of sleep; it woke like a wild beast for hunting, the lion -of his laughter. He had heard the truth once too often. He had heard -the truth for the nine hundred and ninety-ninth time, and he suddenly -saw that it was falsehood. - -It is true that a particular circumstance sharpened and defined his -disappointment. He felt very hotly, as he felt everything, whether -selfish or unselfish, the injustice of the American piracies of -English literature, resulting from the American copyright laws. He -did not go to America with any idea of discussing this; when, some -time afterwards, somebody said that he did, he violently rejected -the view as only describable “in one of the shortest words in the -English language.” But his entry into America was almost triumphal; -the rostrum or pulpit was ready for him; he felt strong enough to say -anything. He had been most warmly entertained by many American men of -letters, especially by Washington Irving, and in his consequent glow -of confidence he stepped up to the dangerous question of American -copyright. He made many speeches attacking the American law and theory -of the matter as unjust to English writers and to American readers. -The effect appears to have astounded him. “I believe there is no -country,” he writes, “on the face of the earth where there is less -freedom of opinion on any subject in reference to which there is a -broad difference of opinion than in this. There! I write the words -with reluctance, disappointment, and sorrow; but I believe it from -the bottom of my soul.... The notion that I, a man alone by myself in -America, should venture to suggest to the Americans that there was -one point on which they were neither just to their own countrymen nor -to us, actually struck the boldest dumb! Washington Irving, Prescott, -Hoffman, Bryant, Halleck, Dana, Washington Allston--every man who -writes in this country is devoted to the question, and not one of them -_dares_ to raise his voice and complain of the atrocious state of the -law.... The wonder is that a breathing man can be found with temerity -enough to suggest to the Americans the possibility of their having done -wrong. I wish you could have seen the faces that I saw down both sides -of the table at Hartford when I began to talk about Scott. I wish you -could have heard how I gave it out. My blood so boiled when I thought -of the monstrous injustice that I felt as if I were twelve feet high -when I thrust it down their throats.” - -That is almost a portrait of Dickens. We can almost see the erect -little figure, its face and hair like a flame. - -For such reasons, among others, Dickens was angry with America. But -if America was angry with Dickens, there were also reasons for it. I -do not think that the rage against his copyright speeches was, as he -supposed, merely national insolence and self-satisfaction. America is -a mystery to any good Englishman; but I think Dickens managed somehow -to touch it on a queer nerve. There is one thing, at any rate, that -must strike all Englishmen who have the good fortune to have American -friends; that is, that while there is no materialism so crude or so -material as American materialism, there is also no idealism so crude or -so ideal as American idealism. America will always affect an Englishman -as being soft in the wrong place and hard in the wrong place; coarse -exactly where all civilized men are delicate, delicate exactly where -all grown-up men are coarse. Some beautiful ideal runs through this -people, but it runs aslant. The only existing picture in which the -thing I mean has been embodied is in Stevenson’s “Wrecker,” in the -blundering delicacy of Jim Pinkerton. America has a new delicacy, a -coarse, rank refinement. But there is another way of embodying the -idea, and that is to say this--that nothing is more likely than that -the Americans thought it very shocking in Dickens, the divine author, -to talk about being done out of money. Nothing would be more American -than to expect a genius to be too high-toned for trade. It is certain -that they deplored his selfishness in the matter, it is probable that -they deplored his indelicacy. A beautiful young dreamer, with flowing -brown hair, ought not to be even conscious of his copyrights. For it is -quite unjust to say that the Americans worship the dollar. They really -do worship intellect--another of the passing superstitions of our time. - -If America had then this Pinkertonian propriety, this new, raw -sensibility, Dickens was the man to rasp it. He was its precise -opposite in every way. The decencies he did respect were old-fashioned -and fundamental. On top of these he had that lounging liberty and -comfort which can only be had on the basis of very old conventions, -like the carelessness of gentlemen and the deliberation of rustics. -He had no fancy for being strung up to that taut and quivering -ideality demanded by American patriots and public speakers. And there -was something else also, connected especially with the question of -copyright and his own pecuniary claims. Dickens was not in the least -desirous of being thought too “high-souled” to want his wages, nor was -he in the least ashamed of asking for them. Deep in him (whether the -modern reader likes the quality or no) was a sense very strong in the -old Radicals--very strong especially in the old English Radicals--a -sense of personal _rights_, one’s own rights included, as something -not merely useful but sacred. He did not think a claim any less just -and solemn because it happened to be selfish; he did not divide claims -into selfish and unselfish, but into right and wrong. It is significant -that when he asked for his money, he never asked for it with that -shamefaced cynicism, that sort of embarrassed brutality, with which -the modern man of the world mutters something about business being -business or looking after number one. He asked for his money in a -valiant and ringing voice, like a man asking for his honour. While his -American critics were moaning and sneering at his interested motives as -a disqualification, he brandished his interested motives like a banner. -“It is nothing to them,” he cries in astonishment, “that, of all men -living, I am the greatest loser by it” (the Copyright Law). “It is -nothing that I have a claim to speak and be heard.” The thing they set -up as a barrier he actually presents as a passport. They think that he, -of all men, ought not to speak because he is interested. He thinks that -he, of all men, ought to speak because he is wronged. - -But this particular disappointment with America in the matter of the -tyranny of its public opinion was not merely the expression of the fact -that Dickens was a typical Englishman; that is, a man with a very sharp -insistence upon individual freedom. It also worked back ultimately to -that larger and vaguer disgust of which I have spoken--the disgust at -the perpetual posturing of the people before a mirror. The tyranny was -irritating, not so much because of the suffering it inflicted on the -minority, but because of the awful glimpses that it gave of the huge -and imbecile happiness of the majority. The very vastness of the vain -race enraged him, its immensity, its unity, its peace. He was annoyed -more with its contentment than with any of its discontents. The thought -of that unthinkable mass of millions, every one of them saying that -Washington was the greatest man on earth, and that the Queen lived -in the Tower of London, rode his riotous fancy like a nightmare. -But to the end he retained the outlines of his original republican -ideal and lamented over America not as being too Liberal, but as not -being Liberal enough. Among others, he used these somewhat remarkable -words: “I tremble for a Radical coming here, unless he is a Radical on -principle, by reason and reflection, and from the sense of right. I -fear that if he were anything else he would return home a Tory.... I -say no more on that head for two months from this time, save that I do -fear that the heaviest blow ever dealt at liberty will be dealt by this -country, in the failure of its example on the earth.” - -We are still waiting to see if that prediction has been fulfilled; but -nobody can say that it has been falsified. - -He went west on the great canals; he went south and touched the region -of slavery; he saw America superficially indeed, but as a whole. And -the great mass of his experience was certainly pleasant, though he -vibrated with anticipatory passion against slave-holders, though he -swore he would accept no public tribute in the slave country (a resolve -which he broke under the pressure of the politeness of the south), -yet his actual collisions with slavery and its upholders were few and -brief. In these he bore himself with his accustomed vivacity and fire, -but it would be a great mistake to convey the impression that his -mental reaction against America was chiefly, or even largely, due to -his horror at the negro problem. Over and above the cant of which we -have spoken, the weary rush of words, the chief complaint he made was a -complaint against bad manners; and on a large view his anti-Americanism -would seem to be more founded on spitting than on slavery. When, -however, it did happen that the primary morality of man-owning came up -for discussion, Dickens displayed an honourable impatience. One man, -full of anti-abolitionist ardour, buttonholed him and bombarded him -with the well-known argument in defence of slavery, that it was not -to the financial interest of a slave-owner to damage or weaken his -own slaves. Dickens, in telling the story of this interview, writes -as follows: “I told him quietly that it was not a man’s interest to -get drunk, or to steal, or to game, or to indulge in any other vice; -but he _did_ indulge in it for all that. That cruelty and the abuse -of irresponsible power were two of the bad passions of human nature, -with the gratification of which considerations of interest or of ruin -had nothing whatever to do....” It is hardly possible to doubt that -Dickens, in telling the man this, told him something sane and logical -and unanswerable. But it is perhaps permissible to doubt whether he -told it to him quietly. - -He returned home in the spring of 1842, and in the later part of the -year his “American Notes” appeared, and the cry against him that had -begun over copyright swelled into a roar in his rear. Yet when we read -the “Notes” we can find little offence in them, and, to say truth, -less interest than usual. They are no true picture of America, or even -of his vision of America, and this for two reasons. First, that he -deliberately excluded from them all mention of that copyright question -which had really given him his glimpse of how tyrannical a democracy -can be. Second, that here he chiefly criticizes America for faults -which are not, after all, especially American. For example, he is -indignant with the inadequate character of the prisons, and compares -them unfavourably with those in England, controlled by Lieutenant -Tracey, and by Chesterton at Coldbath Fields, two reformers of prison -discipline for whom he had a high regard. But it was a mere accident -that American gaols were inferior to English. There was and is nothing -in the American spirit to prevent their effecting all the reforms of -Tracey and Chesterton, nothing to prevent their doing anything that -money and energy and organization can do. America might have (for all -I know, does have) a prison system cleaner and more humane and more -efficient than any other in the world. And the evil genius of America -might still remain--everything might remain that makes Pogram or -Chollop irritating or absurd. And against the evil genius of America -Dickens was now to strike a second and a very different blow. - -In January, 1843, appeared the first number of the novel called “Martin -Chuzzlewit.” The earlier part of the book and the end, which have no -connection with America or the American problem, in any case require -a passing word. But except for the two gigantic grotesques on each -side of the gateway of the tale, Pecksniff and Mrs. Gamp, “Martin -Chuzzlewit” will be chiefly admired for its American excursion. It is -a good satire embedded in an indifferent novel. Mrs. Gamp is, indeed, -a sumptuous study, laid on in those rich, oily, almost greasy colours -that go to make the English comic characters, that make the very -diction of Falstaff fat, and quaking with jolly degradation. Pecksniff -also is almost perfect, and much too good to be true. The only other -thing to be noticed about him is that here, as almost everywhere else -in the novels, the best figures are at their best when they have least -to do. Dickens’s characters are perfect as long as he can keep them out -of his stories. Bumble is divine until a dark and practical secret is -entrusted to him--as if anybody but a lunatic would entrust a secret -to Bumble. Micawber is noble when he is doing nothing; but he is quite -unconvincing when he is spying on Uriah Heep, for obviously neither -Micawber nor any one else would employ Micawber as a private detective. -Similarly, while Pecksniff is the best thing in the story, the story is -the worst thing in Pecksniff. His plot against old Martin can only be -described by saying that it is as silly as old Martin’s plot against -him. His fall at the end is one of the rare falls of Dickens. Surely it -was not necessary to take Pecksniff so seriously. Pecksniff is a merely -laughable character; he is so laughable that he is lovable. Why take -such trouble to unmask a man whose mask you have made transparent? Why -collect all the characters to witness the exposure of a man in whom -none of the characters believe? Why toil and triumph to have the laugh -of a man who was only made to be laughed at? - -But it is the American part of “Martin Chuzzlewit” which is our -concern, and which is memorable. It has the air of a great satire; but -if it is only a great slander, it is still great. His serious book on -America was merely a squib, perhaps a damp squib. In any case, we all -know that America will survive such serious books. But his fantastic -book may survive America. It may survive America as “The Knights” has -survived Athens. “Martin Chuzzlewit” has this quality of great satire -that the critic forgets to ask whether the portrait is true to the -original, because the portrait is so much more important than the -original. Who cares whether Aristophanes correctly describes Kleon, -who is dead, when he so perfectly describes the demagogue, who cannot -die? Just as little, it may be, will some future age care whether the -ancient civilization of the west, the lost cities of New York and -St. Louis, were fairly depicted in the colossal monument of Elijah -Pogram. For there is much more in the American episodes than their -intoxicating absurdity; there is more than humour in the young man who -made the speech about the British Lion, and said, “I taunt that lion. -Alone I dare him;” or in the other man who told Martin that when he -said that Queen Victoria did not live in the Tower of London he “fell -into an error not uncommon among his countrymen.” He has his finger on -the nerve of an evil which was not only in his enemies, but in himself. -The great democrat has hold of one of the dangers of democracy. The -great optimist confronts a horrible nightmare of optimism. Above all, -the genuine Englishman attacks a sin that is not merely American, -but English also. The eternal, complacent iteration of patriotic -half-truths; the perpetual buttering of one’s self all over with the -same stale butter; above all, the big defiances of small enemies, or -the very urgent challenges to very distant enemies; the cowardice so -habitual and unconscious that it wears the plumes of courage--all -this is an English temptation as well as an American one. “Martin -Chuzzlewit” may be a caricature of America. America may be a caricature -of England. But in the gravest college, in the quietest country house -of England, there is the seed of the same essential madness that fills -Dickens’s book, like an asylum, with brawling Chollops and raving -Jefferson Bricks. That essential madness is the idea that the good -patriot is the man who feels at ease about his country. This notion of -patriotism was unknown in the little pagan republics where our European -patriotism began. It was unknown in the Middle Ages. In the eighteenth -century, in the making of modern politics, a “patriot” meant a -discontented man. It was opposed to the word “courtier,” which meant an -upholder of the _status quo_. In all other modern countries, especially -in countries like France and Ireland, where real difficulties have been -faced, the word “patriot” means something like a political pessimist. -This view and these countries have exaggerations and dangers of their -own; but the exaggeration and danger of England is the same as the -exaggeration and danger of _The Watertoast Gazette_. The thing which -is rather foolishly called the Anglo-Saxon civilization is at present -soaked through with a weak pride. It uses great masses of men not to -procure discussion but to procure the pleasure of unanimity; it uses -masses like bolsters. It uses its organs of public opinion not to warn -the public, but to soothe it. It really succeeds not only in ignoring -the rest of the world, but actually in forgetting it. And when a -civilization really forgets the rest of the world--lets it fall as -something obviously dim and barbaric--then there is only one adjective -for the ultimate fate of that civilization, and that adjective is -“Chinese.” - -Martin Chuzzlewit’s America is a mad-house: but it is a mad-house we -are all on the road to. For completeness and even comfort are almost -the definitions of insanity. The lunatic is the man who lives in a -small world but thinks it is a large one: he is the man who lives in -a tenth of the truth, and thinks it is the whole. The madman cannot -conceive any cosmos outside a certain tale or conspiracy or vision. -Hence the more clearly we see the world divided into Saxons and -non-Saxons, into our splendid selves and the rest, the more certain we -may be that we are slowly and quietly going mad. The more plain and -satisfying our state appears, the more we may know that we are living -in an unreal world. For the real world is not satisfying. The more -clear become the colours and facts of Anglo-Saxon superiority, the more -surely we may know we are in a dream. For the real world is not clear -or plain. The real world is full of bracing bewilderments and brutal -surprises. Comfort is the blessing and the curse of the English, and of -Americans of the Pogram type also. With them it is a loud comfort, a -wild comfort, a screaming and capering comfort; but comfort at bottom -still. For there is but an inch of difference between the cushioned -chamber and the padded cell. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -DICKENS AND CHRISTMAS - - -In the July of 1844 Dickens went on an Italian tour, which he -afterwards summarized in the book called “Pictures from Italy.” They -are, of course, very vivacious, but there is no great need to insist -on them, considered as Italian sketches; there is no need whatever to -worry about them as a phase of the mind of Dickens when he travelled -out of England. He never travelled out of England. There is no trace -in all these amusing pages that he really felt the great foreign -things which lie in wait for us in the south of Europe, the Latin -civilization, the Catholic Church, the art of the centre, the endless -end of Rome. His travels are not travels in Italy, but travels in -Dickensland. He sees amusing things; he describes them amusingly. But -he would have seen things just as good in a street in Pimlico, and -described them just as well. Few things were racier even in his raciest -novel, than his description of the marionette play of the death of -Napoleon. Nothing could be more perfect than the figure of the doctor, -which had something wrong with its wires, and hence “hovered about -the couch and delivered medical opinions in the air.” Nothing could -be better as a catching of the spirit of all popular drama than the -colossal depravity of the wooden image of “Sir Udson Low.” But there -is nothing Italian about it. Dickens would have made just as good fun, -indeed just the same fun, of a Punch and Judy show performing in Long -Acre or Lincoln’s Inn Fields. - -Dickens uttered just and sincere satire on Plornish and Podsnap; -but Dickens was as English as any Podsnap or any Plornish. He had a -hearty humanitarianism, and a hearty sense of justice to all nations, -so far as he understood it. But that very kind of humanitarianism, -that very kind of justice, were English. He was the Englishman of the -type that made Free Trade, the most English of all things, since it -was at once calculating and optimistic. He respected catacombs and -gondolas, but that very respect was English. He wondered at brigands -and volcanoes, but that very wonder was English. The very conception -that Italy consists of these things was an English conception. The root -things he never understood, the Roman legend, the ancient life of the -Mediterranean, the world-old civilization of the vine and olive, the -mystery of the immutable Church. He never understood these things, -and I am glad he never understood them: he could only have understood -them by ceasing to be the inspired cockney that he was, the rousing -English Radical of the great Radical age in England. That spirit of -his was one of the things that we have had which were truly national. -All other forces we have borrowed, especially those which flatter us -most. Imperialism is foreign, socialism is foreign, militarism is -foreign, education is foreign, strictly even Liberalism is foreign. But -Radicalism was our own; as English as the hedge-rows. - -Dickens abroad, then, was for all serious purposes simply the -Englishman abroad; the Englishman abroad is for all serious purposes, -simply the Englishman at home. Of this generalization one modification -must be made. Dickens did feel a direct pleasure in the bright and -busy exterior of the French life, the clean caps, the coloured -uniforms, the skies like blue enamel, the little green trees, the -little white houses, the scene picked out in primary colours, like -a child’s picture-book. This he felt, and this he put (by a stroke -of genius) into the mouth of Mrs. Lirriper, a London landlady on a -holiday: for Dickens always knew that it is the simple and not the -subtle who feel differences; and he saw all his colours through the -clear eyes of the poor. And in thus taking to his heart the streets -as it were, rather than the spires of the Continent, he showed beyond -question that combination of which we have spoken--of common sense -with uncommon sensibility. For it is for the sake of the streets and -shops and the coats and hats, that we should go abroad; they are far -better worth going to see than the castles and cathedrals and Roman -camps. For the wonders of the world are the same all over the world, -at least all over the European world. Castles that throw valleys in -shadow, minsters that strike the sky, roads so old that they seem to -have been made by the gods, these are in all Christian countries. The -marvels of man are at all our doors. A labourer hoeing turnips in -Sussex has no need to be ignorant that the bones of Europe are the -Roman roads. A clerk living in Lambeth has no need not to know that -there was a Christian art exuberant in the thirteenth century; for only -across the river he can see the live stones of the Middle Ages surging -together towards the stars. But exactly the things that do strike the -traveller as extraordinary are the ordinary things, the food, the -clothes, the vehicles; the strange things are cosmopolitan, the common -things are national and peculiar. Cologne spire is lifted on the same -arches as Canterbury; but the thing you cannot see out of Germany is a -German beer-garden. There is no need for a Frenchman to go to look at -Westminster Abbey as a piece of English architecture; it is not, in the -special sense, a piece of English architecture. But a hansom cab is a -piece of English architecture; a thing produced by the peculiar poetry -of our cities, a symbol of a certain reckless comfort which is really -English; a thing to draw a pilgrimage of the nations. The imaginative -Englishman will be found all day in a _café_; the imaginative Frenchman -in a hansom cab. - -This sort of pleasure Dickens took in the Latin life; but no deeper -kind. And the strongest of all possible indications of his fundamental -detachment from it can be found in one fact. A great part of the time -that he was in Italy he was engaged in writing “The Chimes,” and such -Christmas tales, tales of Christmas in the English towns, tales full of -fog and snow and hail and happiness. - -Dickens could find in any street divergences between man and man deeper -than the divisions of nations. His fault was to exaggerate differences. -He could find types almost as distinct as separate tribes of animals in -his own brain and his own city, those two homes of a magnificent chaos. -The only two southerners introduced prominently into his novels, -the two in “Little Dorrit,” are popular English foreigners, I had -almost said stage foreigners. Villainy is, in English eyes, a southern -trait, therefore one of the foreigners is villainous. Vivacity is, in -English eyes, another southern trait, therefore the other foreigner is -vivacious. But we can see from the outlines of both that Dickens did -not have to go to Italy to get them. While poor panting millionaires, -poor tired earls and poor God-forsaken American men of culture are -plodding about Italy for literary inspiration, Charles Dickens made -up the whole of that Italian romance (as I strongly suspect) from the -faces of two London organ-grinders. - -In the sunlight of the southern world, he was still dreaming of the -firelight of the north. Among the palaces and the white campanile, -he shut his eyes to see Marylebone and dreamed a lovely dream of -chimney-pots. He was not happy he said, without streets. The very -foulness and smoke of London were lovable in his eyes and fill his -Christmas tales with a vivid vapour. In the clear skies of the south he -saw afar off the fog of London like a sunset cloud and longed to be in -the core of it. - -This Christmas tone of Dickens, in connection with his travels is a -matter that can only be expressed by a parallel with one of his other -works. Much the same that has here been said of his “Pictures from -Italy” may be said about his “Child’s History of England;” with the -difference that while the “Pictures from Italy,” do in a sense add to -his fame, the “History of England” in almost every sense detracts from -it. But the nature of the limitation is the same. What Dickens was -travelling in distant lands, that he was travelling in distant ages; -a sturdy, sentimental English Radical with a large heart and a narrow -mind. He could not help falling into that besetting sin or weakness -of the modern progressive, the habit of regarding the contemporary -questions as the eternal questions and the latest word as the last. -He could not get out of his head the instinctive conception that the -real problem before St. Dunstan was whether he should support Lord John -Russell or Sir Robert Peel. He could not help seeing the remotest peaks -lit up by the raging bonfire of his own passionate political crisis. He -lived for the instant and its urgency; that is, he did what St. Dunstan -did. He lived in an eternal present like all simple men. It is indeed -“A Child’s History of England;” but the child is the writer and not the -reader. - -But Dickens in his cheapest cockney utilitarianism, was not only -English, but unconsciously historic. Upon him descended the real -tradition of “Merry England,” and not upon the pallid mediævalists who -thought they were reviving it. The Pre-Raphaelites, the Gothicists, -the admirers of the Middle Ages, had in their subtlety and sadness the -spirit of the present day. Dickens had in his buffoonery and bravery -the spirit of the Middle Ages. He was much more mediæval in his attacks -on mediævalism than they were in their defences of it. It was he who -had the things of Chaucer, the love of large jokes and long stories and -brown ale and all the white roads of England. Like Chaucer he loved -story within story, every man telling a tale. Like Chaucer he saw -something openly comic in men’s motley trades. Sam Weller would have -been a great gain to the Canterbury Pilgrimage and told an admirable -story. Rossetti’s Damozel would have been a great bore, regarded as -too fast by the Prioress and too priggish by the Wife of Bath. It is -said that in the somewhat sickly Victorian revival of feudalism which -was called “Young England,” a nobleman hired a hermit to live in his -grounds. It is also said that the hermit struck for more beer. Whether -this anecdote be true or not, it is always told as showing a collapse -from the ideal of the Middle Ages to the level of the present day. But -in the mere act of striking for beer the holy man was very much more -“mediæval” than the fool who employed him. - -It would be hard to find a better example of this than Dickens’s great -defence of Christmas. In fighting for Christmas he was fighting for -the old European festival, Pagan and Christian, for that trinity of -eating, drinking and praying which to moderns appears irreverent, for -the holy day which is really a holiday. He had himself the most babyish -ideas about the past. He supposed the Middle Ages to have consisted -of tournaments and torture-chambers, he supposed himself to be a -brisk man of the manufacturing age, almost a Utilitarian. But for all -that he defended the mediæval feast which was going out against the -Utilitarianism which was coming in. He could only see all that was bad -in mediævalism. But he fought for all that was good in it. And he was -all the more really in sympathy with the old strength and simplicity -because he only knew that it was good and did not know that it was old. -He cared as little for mediævalism as the mediævals did. He cared as -much as they did for lustiness and virile laughter and sad tales of -good lovers and pleasant tales of good livers. He would have been very -much bored by Ruskin and Walter Pater if they had explained to him the -strange sunset tints of Lippi and Botticelli. He had no pleasure in -looking on the dying Middle Ages. But he looked on the living Middle -Ages, on a piece of the old uproarious superstition still unbroken; and -he hailed it like a new religion. The Dickens character ate pudding to -an extent at which the modern mediævalists turned pale. They would do -every kind of honour to an old observance, except observing it. They -would pay to a Church feast every sort of compliment except feasting. - -And (as I have said) as were his unconscious relations to our European -past, so were his unconscious relations to England. He imagined -himself to be, if anything, a sort of cosmopolitan; at any rate to be -a champion of the charms and merits of continental lands against the -arrogance of our island. But he was in truth very much more a champion -of the old and genuine England against that comparatively cosmopolitan -England which we have all lived to see. And here again the supreme -example is Christmas. Christmas is, as I have said, one of numberless -old European feasts of which the essence is the combination of religion -with merry-making. But among those feasts it is also especially and -distinctively English in the style of its merry-making and even in the -style of its religion. For the character of Christmas (as distinct, -for instance, from the continental Easter) lies chiefly in two things: -first on the terrestrial side the note of comfort rather than the note -of brightness; and on the spiritual side, Christian charity rather -than Christian ecstasy. And comfort is, like charity, a very English -instinct. Nay, comfort is, like charity, an English merit; though our -comfort may and does degenerate into materialism, just as our charity -may (and does) degenerate into laxity and make-believe. - -This ideal of comfort belongs peculiarly to England; it belongs -peculiarly to Christmas; above all it belongs pre-eminently to Dickens. -And it is astonishingly misunderstood. It is misunderstood by the -continent of Europe, it is, if possible, still more misunderstood by -the English of to-day. On the Continent the restaurateurs provide us -with raw beef, as if we were savages; yet old English cooking takes as -much care as French. And in England has arisen a parvenu patriotism -which represents the English as everything but English; as a blend of -Chinese stoicism, Latin militarism, Prussian rigidity, and American -bad taste. And so England, whose fault is gentility and whose virtue -is geniality, England with her tradition of the great gay gentlemen -of Elizabeth, is represented to the four quarters of the world (as in -Mr. Kipling’s religious poems) in the enormous image of a solemn cad. -And because it is very difficult to be comfortable in the suburbs, -the suburbs have voted that comfort is a gross and material thing. -Comfort, especially this vision of Christmas comfort, is the reverse of -a gross or material thing. It is far more poetical, properly speaking, -than the Garden of Epicurus. It is far more artistic than the Palace -of Art. It is more artistic because it is based upon a contrast, a -contrast between the fire and wine within the house and the winter and -the roaring rains without. It is far more poetical, because there is -in it a note of defence, almost of war; a note of being besieged by -the snow and hail; of making merry in the belly of a fort. The man who -said that an Englishman’s house is his castle said much more than he -meant. The Englishman thinks of his house as something fortified, and -provisioned, and his very surliness is at root romantic. And this sense -would naturally be strongest in wild winter nights, when the lowered -portcullis and the lifted drawbridge do not merely bar people out, but -bar people in. The Englishman’s house is most sacred, not merely when -the King cannot enter it, but when the Englishman cannot get out of it. - -This comfort, then, is an abstract thing, a principle. The English -poor shut all their doors and windows till their rooms reek like the -Black Hole. They are suffering for an idea. Mere animal hedonism would -not dream, as we English do, of winter feasts and little rooms, but of -eating fruit in large and idle gardens. Mere sensuality would desire to -please all its senses. But to our good dreams this dark and dangerous -background is essential; the highest pleasure we can imagine is a -defiant pleasure, a happiness that stands at bay. The word “comfort” is -not indeed the right word, it conveys too much of the slander of mere -sense; the true word is “cosiness,” a word not translatable. One, at -least, of the essentials of it is smallness, smallness in preference -to largeness, smallness for smallness’s sake. The merry-maker wants a -pleasant parlour, he would not give twopence for a pleasant continent. -In our difficult time, of course, a fight for mere space has become -necessary. Instead of being greedy for ale and Christmas pudding we -are greedy for mere air, an equally sensual appetite. In abnormal -conditions this is wise; and the illimitable veldt is an excellent -thing for nervous people. But our fathers were large and healthy -enough to make a thing humane, and not worry about whether it was -hygienic. They were big enough to get into small rooms. - -Of this quite deliberate and artistic quality in the close Christmas -chamber, the standing evidence is Dickens in Italy. He created these -dim firelit tales like little dim red jewels, as an artistic necessity, -in the centre of an endless summer. Amid the white cities of Tuscany -he hungered for something romantic, and wrote about a rainy Christmas. -Amid the pictures of the Uffizi he starved for something beautiful, and -fed his memory on London fog. His feeling for the fog was especially -poignant and typical. In the first of his Christmas tales, the popular -“Christmas Carol,” he suggested the very soul of it in one simile, -when he spoke of the dense air, suggesting that “Nature was brewing -on a large scale.” This sense of the thick atmosphere as something -to eat or drink, something not only solid but satisfactory, may seem -almost insane, but it is no exaggeration of Dickens’s emotion. We speak -of a fog “that you could cut with a knife.” Dickens would have liked -the phrase as suggesting that the fog was a colossal cake. He liked -even more his own phrase of the Titanic brewery, and no dream would -have given him a wilder pleasure than to grope his way to some such -tremendous vats and drink the ale of the giants. - -There is a current prejudice against fogs, and Dickens, perhaps, is -their only poet. Considered hygienically no doubt this may be more or -less excusable. But, considered poetically, fog is not undeserving, -it has a real significance. We have in our great cities abolished the -clean and sane darkness of the country. We have outlawed night and sent -her wandering in wild meadows; we have lit eternal watch-fires against -her return. We have made a new cosmos, and as a consequence our own sun -and stars. And, as a consequence also, and most justly, we have made -our own darkness. Just as every lamp is a warm human moon, so every fog -is a rich human nightfall. If it were not for this mystic accident we -should never see darkness, and he who has never seen darkness has never -seen the sun. Fog for us is the chief form of that outward pressure -which compresses mere luxury into real comfort. It makes the world -small, in the same spirit as in that common and happy cry that the -world is small, meaning that it is full of friends. The first man that -emerges out of the mist with a light, is for us Prometheus, a saviour -bringing fire to men. He is that greatest and best of all men, greater -than the heroes, better than the saints, Man Friday. Every rumble of a -cart, every cry in the distance, marks the heart of humanity beating -undaunted in the darkness. It is wholly human; man toiling in his own -cloud. If real darkness is like the embrace of God, this is the dark -embrace of man. - -In such a sacred cloud the tale called “The Christmas Carol” begins, -the first and most typical of all his Christmas tales. It is not -irrelevant to dilate upon the geniality of this darkness, because it is -characteristic of Dickens that his atmospheres are more important than -his stories. The Christmas atmosphere is more important than Scrooge, -or the ghosts either; in a sense, the background is more important -than the figures. The same thing may be noticed in his dealings with -that other atmosphere (besides that of good humour) which he excelled -in creating, an atmosphere of mystery and wrong, such as that which -gathers round Mrs. Clennam, rigid in her chair, or old Miss Havisham, -ironically robed as a bride. Here again the atmosphere altogether -eclipses the story, which often seems disappointing in comparison. The -secrecy is sensational; the secret is tame. The surface of the thing -seems more awful than the core of it. It seems almost as if these -grisly figures, Mrs. Chadband and Mrs. Clennam, Miss Havisham and Miss -Flite, Nemo and Sally Brass, were keeping something back from the -author as well as from the reader. When the book closes we do not know -their real secret. They soothed the optimistic Dickens with something -less terrible than the truth. The dark house of Arthur Clennam’s -childhood really depresses us; it is a true glimpse into that quiet -street in hell, where live the children of that unique dispensation -which theologians call Calvinism and Christians devil-worship. But -some stranger crime had really been done there, some more monstrous -blasphemy or human sacrifice than the suppression of some silly -document advantageous to the silly Dorrits. Something worse than a -common tale of jilting lay behind the masquerade and madness of the -awful Miss Havisham. Something worse was whispered by the misshapen -Quilp to the sinister Sally in that wild, wet summer-house by the -river, something worse than the clumsy plot against the clumsy Kit. -These dark pictures seem almost as if they were literally visions; -things, that is, that Dickens saw but did not understand. - -And as with his backgrounds of gloom, so with his backgrounds of -good-will, in such tales as “The Christmas Carol.” The tone of the tale -is kept throughout in a happy monotony, though the tale is everywhere -irregular and in some places weak. It has the same kind of artistic -unity that belongs to a dream. A dream may begin with the end of the -world and end with a tea-party; but either the end of the world will -seem as trivial as a tea-party or that tea-party will be as terrible -as the day of doom. The incidents change wildly; the story scarcely -changes at all. “The Christmas Carol” is a kind of philanthropic dream, -an enjoyable nightmare, in which the scenes shift bewilderingly and -seem as miscellaneous as the pictures in a scrap-book, but in which -there is one constant state of the soul, a state of rowdy benediction -and a hunger for human faces. The beginning is about a winter day and a -miser; yet the beginning is in no way bleak. The author starts with a -kind of happy howl; he bangs on our door like a drunken carol singer; -his style is festive and popular; he compares the snow and hail to -philanthropists who “come down handsomely”; he compares the fog to -unlimited beer. Scrooge is not really inhuman at the beginning any -more than he is at the end. There is a heartiness in his inhospitable -sentiments that is akin to humour and therefore to humanity; he is only -a crusty old bachelor, and had (I strongly suspect) given away turkeys -secretly all his life. The beauty and the real blessing of the story -do not lie in the mechanical plot of it, the repentance of Scrooge, -probable or improbable; they lie in the great furnace of real happiness -that glows through Scrooge and everything round him; that great -furnace, the heart of Dickens. Whether the Christmas visions would or -would not convert Scrooge, they convert us. Whether or no the visions -were evoked by real Spirits of the Past, Present, and Future, they -were evoked by that truly exalted order of angels who are correctly -called High Spirits. They are impelled and sustained by a quality -which our contemporary artists ignore or almost deny, but which in a -life decently lived is as normal and attainable as sleep, positive, -passionate, conscious joy. The story sings from end to end like a happy -man going home; and, like a happy and good man, when it cannot sing it -yells. It is lyric and exclamatory, from the first exclamatory words of -it. It is strictly a Christmas Carol. - -Dickens, as has been said, went to Italy with this kindly cloud still -about him, still meditating on Yule mysteries. Among the olives and -the orange-trees he wrote his second great Christmas tale, “The -Chimes” (at Genoa in 1844), a Christmas tale only differing from “The -Christmas Carol” in being fuller of the grey rains of winter and -the north. “The Chimes” is, like the “Carol,” an appeal for charity -and mirth, but it is a stern and fighting appeal: if the other is a -Christmas carol, this is a Christmas war-song. In it Dickens hurled -himself with even more than his usual militant joy and scorn into an -attack upon a cant, which he said made his blood boil. This cant was -nothing more nor less than the whole tone taken by three-quarters of -the political and economic world towards the poor. It was a vague and -vulgar Benthamism with a rollicking Tory touch in it. It explained to -the poor their duties with a cold and coarse philanthropy unendurable -by any free man. It had also at its command a kind of brutal banter, a -loud good-humour which Dickens sketches savagely in Alderman Cute. He -fell furiously on all their ideas: the cheap advice to live cheaply, -the base advice to live basely, above all, the preposterous primary -assumption that the rich are to advise the poor and not the poor the -rich. There were and are hundreds of these benevolent bullies. Some say -that the poor should give up having children, which means that they -should give up their great virtue of sexual sanity. Some say that they -should give up “treating” each other, which means that they should give -up all that remains to them of the virtue of hospitality. Against all -of this Dickens thundered very thoroughly in “The Chimes.” It may be -remarked in passing that this affords another instance of a confusion -already referred to, the confusion whereby Dickens supposed himself to -be exalting the present over the past, whereas he was really dealing -deadly blows at things strictly peculiar to the present. Embedded in -this very book is a somewhat useless interview between Trotty Veck and -the church bells, in which the latter lectures the former for having -supposed (why I don’t know) that they were expressing regret for the -disappearance of the Middle Ages. There is no reason why Trotty Veck or -any one else should idealize the Middle Ages, but certainly he was the -last man in the world to be asked to idealize the nineteenth century, -seeing that the smug and stingy philosophy, which poisons his life -through the book, was an exclusive creation of that century. But, as -I have said before, the fieriest mediævalist may forgive Dickens for -disliking the good things the Middle Ages took away, considering how he -loved whatever good things the Middle Ages left behind. It matters very -little that he hated old feudal castles when they were already old. It -matters very much that he hated the New Poor Law while it was still -new. - -The moral of this matter in “The Chimes” is essential. Dickens had -sympathy with the poor in the Greek and literal sense; he suffered -with them mentally; for the things that irritated them were the things -that irritated him. He did not pity the people, or even champion the -people, or even merely love the people; in this matter he was the -people. He alone in our literature is the voice not merely of the -social substratum, but even of the subconsciousness of the substratum. -He utters the secret anger of the humble. He says what the uneducated -only think, or even only feel, about the educated. And in nothing is he -so genuinely such a voice as in this fact of his fiercest mood being -reserved for methods that are counted scientific and progressive. -Pure and exalted atheists talk themselves into believing that the -working-classes are turning with indignant scorn from the churches. -The working-classes are not indignant against the churches in the -least. The things the working-classes really are indignant against are -the hospitals. The people has no definite disbelief in the temples -of theology. The people has a very fiery and practical disbelief in -the temples of physical science. The things the poor hate are the -modern things, the rationalistic things--doctors, inspectors, poor -law guardians, professional philanthropy. They never showed any -reluctance to be helped by the old and corrupt monasteries. They will -often die rather than be helped by the modern and efficient workhouse. -Of all this anger, good or bad, Dickens is the voice of an accusing -energy. When, in “The Christmas Carol,” Scrooge refers to the surplus -population, the Spirit tells him, very justly, not to speak till he -knows what the surplus is and where it is. The implication is severe -but sound. When a group of superciliously benevolent economists look -down into the abyss for the surplus population, assuredly there is only -one answer that should be given to them; and that is to say, “If there -is a surplus, you are a surplus.” And if any one were ever cut off, -they would be. If the barricades went up in our streets and the poor -became masters, I think the priests would escape, I fear the gentlemen -would; but I believe the gutters would be simply running with the blood -of philanthropists. - -Lastly, he was at one with the poor in this chief matter of Christmas, -in the matter, that is, of special festivity. There is nothing on which -the poor are more criticized than on the point of spending large sums -on small feasts; and though there are material difficulties, there -is nothing in which they are more right. It is said that a Boston -paradox-monger said, “Give us the luxuries of life and we will dispense -with the necessities.” But it is the whole human race that says it, -from the first savage wearing feathers instead of clothes to the last -costermonger having a treat instead of three meals. - -The third of his Christmas stories, “The Cricket on the Hearth,” -calls for no extensive comment, though it is very characteristic. It -has all the qualities which we have called dominant qualities in his -Christmas sentiment. It has cosiness, that is the comfort that depends -upon a discomfort surrounding it. It has a sympathy with the poor, and -especially with the extravagance of the poor; with what may be called -the temporary wealth of the poor. It has the sentiment of the hearth, -that is, the sentiment of the open fire being the red heart of the -room. That open fire is the veritable flame of England, still kept -burning in the midst of a mean civilization of stoves. But everything -that is valuable in “The Cricket on the Hearth” is perhaps as well -expressed in the title as it is in the story. The tale itself, in spite -of some of those inimitable things that Dickens never failed to say, -is a little too comfortable to be quite convincing. “The Christmas -Carol” is the conversion of an anti-Christmas character. “The Chimes” -is a slaughter of anti-Christmas characters. “The Cricket,” perhaps, -fails for lack of this crusading note. For everything has its weak -side, and when full justice has been done to this neglected note of -poetic comfort, we must remember that it has its very real weak side. -The defect of it in the work of Dickens was that he tended sometimes -to pile up the cushions until none of the characters could move. He is -so much interested in effecting his state of static happiness that he -forgets to make a story at all. His princes at the start of the story -begin to live happily ever afterwards. We feel this strongly in “Master -Humphrey’s Clock,” and we feel it sometimes in these Christmas stories. -He makes his characters so comfortable that his characters begin to -dream and drivel. And he makes his reader so comfortable that his -reader goes to sleep. - -The actual tale of the carrier and his wife sounds somewhat sleepily -in our ears; we cannot keep our attention fixed on it, though we are -conscious of a kind of warmth from it as from a great wood fire. We -know so well that everything will soon be all right that we do not -suspect when the carrier suspects, and are not frightened when the -gruff Tackleton growls. The sound of the Christmas festivities at the -end comes fainter on our ears than did the shout of the Cratchits or -the bells of Trotty Veck. All the good figures that followed Scrooge -when he came growling out of the fog fade into the fog again. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -THE TIME OF TRANSITION - - -Dickens was back in London by the June of 1845. About this time he -became the first editor of _The Daily News_, a paper which he had -largely planned and suggested, and which, I trust, remembers its -semi-divine origin. That his thoughts had been running, as suggested in -the last chapter, somewhat monotonously on his Christmas domesticities, -is again suggested by the rather singular fact that he originally -wished _The Daily News_ to be called _The Cricket_. Probably he was -haunted again with his old vision of a homely, tale-telling periodical -such as had broken off in “Master Humphrey’s Clock.” About this time, -however, he was peculiarly unsettled. Almost as soon as he had taken -the editorship he threw it up; and having only recently come back to -England, he soon made up his mind to go back to the Continent. In the -May of 1846 he ran over to Switzerland and tried to write “Dombey and -Son” at Lausanne. Tried to, I say, because his letters are full of an -angry impotence. He could not get on. He attributed this especially -to his love of London and his loss of it, “the absence of streets and -numbers of figures.... _My_ figures seem disposed to stagnate without -crowds about them.” But he also, with shrewdness, attributed it more -generally to the laxer and more wandering life he had led for the last -two years, the American tour, the Italian tour, diversified, generally -speaking, only with slight literary productions. His ways were never -punctual or healthy, but they were also never unconscientious as far as -work was concerned. If he walked all night he could write all day. But -in this strange exile or inter-regnum he did not seem able to fall into -any habits, even bad habits. A restlessness beyond all his experience -had fallen for a season upon the most restless of the children of men. - -It may be a mere coincidence: but this break in his life very nearly -coincided with the important break in his art. “Dombey and Son,” -planned in all probability some time before, was destined to be the -last of a quite definite series, the early novels of Dickens. The -difference between the books from the beginning up to “Dombey,” and -the books from “David Copperfield” to the end may be hard to state -dogmatically, but is evident to every one with any literary sense. Very -coarsely, the case may be put by saying that he diminished, in the -story as a whole, the practice of pure caricature. Still more coarsely -it may be put in the phrase that he began to practise realism. If we -take Mr. Stiggins, say, as a clergyman depicted at the beginning of -his literary career, and Mr. Crisparkle, say, as a clergyman depicted -at the end of it, it is evident that the difference does not merely -consist in the fact that the first is a less desirable clergyman than -the second. It consists in the nature of our desire for either of them. -The glory of Mr. Crisparkle partly consists in the fact that he might -really exist anywhere, in any country town into which we may happen -to stray. The glory of Mr. Stiggins wholly consists in the fact that -he could not possibly exist anywhere except in the head of Dickens. -Dickens has the secret recipe of that divine dish. In some sense, -therefore, when we say that he became less of a caricaturist we mean -that he became less of a creator. That original violent vision of -all things which he had seen from his boyhood began to be mixed with -other men’s milder visions and with the light of common day. He began -to understand and practise other than his own mad merits; began to -have some movement towards the merits of other writers, towards the -mixed emotion of Thackeray, or the solidity of George Eliot. And this -must be said for the process; that the fierce wine of Dickens could -endure some dilution. On the whole, perhaps, his primal personalism -was all the better when surging against some saner restraints. Perhaps -a flavour of strong Stiggins goes a long way. Perhaps the colossal -Crummles might be cut down into six or seven quite credible characters. -For my own part, for reasons which I shall afterwards mention, I am -in real doubt about the advantage of this realistic education of -Dickens. I am not sure that it made his books better; but I am sure it -made them less bad. He made fewer mistakes undoubtedly; he succeeded -in eliminating much of the mere rant or cant of his first books; he -threw away much of the old padding, all the more annoying, perhaps, -in a literary sense, because he did not mean it for padding, but -for essential eloquence. But he did not produce anything actually -better than Mr. Chuckster. But then there is nothing better than Mr. -Chuckster. Certain works of art, such as the Venus of Milo, exhaust our -aspiration. Upon the whole this may, perhaps, be safely said of the -transition. Those who have any doubt about Dickens can have no doubt -of the superiority of the later books. Beyond question they have less -of what annoys us in Dickens. But do not, if you are in the company of -any ardent adorers of Dickens (as I hope for your sake you are) do not -insist too urgently and exclusively on the splendour of Dickens’s last -works, or they will discover that you do not like him. - -“Dombey and Son” is the last novel in the first manner: “David -Copperfield” is the first novel in the last. The increase in care and -realism in the second of the two is almost startling. Yet even in -“Dombey and Son” we can see the coming of a change, however faint, if -we compare it with his first fantasies, such as “Nicholas Nickleby” or -“The Old Curiosity Shop.” The central story is still melodrama, but it -is much more tactful and effective melodrama. Melodrama is a form of -art, legitimate like any other, as noble as farce, almost as noble as -pantomime. The essence of melodrama is that it appeals to the moral -sense in a highly simplified state, just as farce appeals to the sense -of humour in a highly simplified state. Farce creates people who are -so intellectually simple as to hide in packing-cases or pretend to be -their own aunts. Melodrama creates people so morally simple as to kill -their enemies in Oxford Street, and repent on seeing their mother’s -photograph. The object of the simplification in farce and melodrama -is the same, and quite artistically legitimate, the object of gaining -a resounding rapidity of action which subtleties would obstruct. And -this can be done well or ill. The simplified villain can be a spirited -charcoal sketch or a mere black smudge. Carker is a spirited charcoal -sketch: Ralph Nickleby is a mere black smudge. The tragedy of Edith -Dombey teems with unlikelihood, but it teems with life. That Dombey -should give his own wife censure through his own business manager is -impossible, I will not say in a gentleman, but in a person of ordinary -sane self-conceit. But once having got the inconceivable trio before -the footlights, Dickens gives us good ringing dialogue, very different -from the mere rants in which Ralph Nickleby figures in the unimaginable -character of a rhetorical money-lender. And there is another point -of technical improvement in this book over such books as “Nicholas -Nickleby.” It has not only a basic idea, but a good basic idea. There -is a real artistic opportunity in the conception of a solemn and -selfish man of affairs, feeling for his male heir his first and last -emotion, mingled of a thin flame of tenderness and a strong flame of -pride. But with all these possibilities, the serious episode of the -Dombeys serves ultimately only to show how unfitted Dickens was for -such things, how fitted he was for something opposite. - -The incurable poetic character, the hopelessly non-realistic character -of Dickens’s essential genius could not have a better example than -the story of the Dombeys. For the story itself is probable; it is the -treatment that makes it unreal. In attempting to paint the dark pagan -devotion of the father (as distinct from the ecstatic and Christian -devotion of the mother), Dickens was painting something that was -really there. This is no wild theme, like the wanderings of Nell’s -grandfather, or the marriage of Gride. A man of Dombey’s type would -love his son as he loves Paul. He would neglect his daughter as he -neglects Florence. And yet we feel the utter unreality of it all, while -we feel the utter reality of monsters like Stiggins or Mantalini. -Dickens could only work in his own way, and that way was the wild -way. We may almost say this: that he could only make his characters -probable if he was allowed to make them impossible. Give him license -to say and do anything, and he could create beings as vivid as our own -aunts and uncles. Keep him to likelihood and he could not tell the -plainest tale so as to make it seem likely. The story of “Pickwick” is -credible, although it is not possible. The story of Florence Dombey is -incredible although it is true. - -An excellent example can be found in the same story. Major Bagstock -is a grotesque, and yet he contains touch after touch of Dickens’s -quiet and sane observation of things as they are. He was always most -accurate when he was most fantastic. Dombey and Florence are perfectly -reasonable, but we simply know that they do not exist. The Major is -mountainously exaggerated, but we all feel that we have met him at -Brighton. Nor is the rationale of the paradox difficult to see; Dickens -exaggerated when he had found a real truth to exaggerate. It is a -deadly error (an error at the back of much of the false placidity of -our politics) to suppose that lies are told with excess and luxuriance, -and truths told with modesty and restraint. Some of the most frantic -lies on the face of life are told with modesty and restraint; for the -simple reason that only modesty and restraint will save them. Many -official declarations are just as dignified as Mr. Dombey, because -they are just as fictitious. On the other hand, the man who has found -a truth dances about like a boy who has found a shilling; he breaks -into extravagances, as the Christian churches broke into gargoyles. In -one sense truth alone can be exaggerated; nothing else can stand the -strain. The outrageous Bagstock is a glowing and glaring exaggeration -of a thing we have all seen in life--the worst and most dangerous of -all its hypocrisies. For the worst and most dangerous hypocrite is not -he who affects unpopular virtue, but he who affects popular vice. The -jolly fellow of the saloon bar and the racecourse is the real deceiver -of mankind; he has misled more than any false prophet, and his victims -cry to him out of hell. The excellence of the Bagstock conception can -best be seen if we compare it with the much weaker and more improbable -knavery of Pecksniff. It would not be worth a man’s while, with any -worldly object, to pretend to be a holy and high-minded architect. The -world does not admire holy and high-minded architects. The world does -admire rough and tough old army men who swear at waiters and wink at -women. Major Bagstock is simply the perfect prophecy of that decadent -jingoism which corrupted England of late years. England has been duped, -not by the cant of goodness, but by the cant of badness. It has been -fascinated by a quite fictitious cynicism, and reached that last and -strangest of all impostures in which the mask is as repulsive as the -face. - -“Dombey and Son” provides us with yet another instance of this -general fact in Dickens. He could only get to the most solemn emotions -adequately if he got to them through the grotesque. He could only, so -to speak, really get into the inner chamber by coming down the chimney, -like his own most lovable lunatic in “Nicholas Nickleby.” A good -example is such a character as Toots. Toots is what none of Dickens’s -dignified characters are, in the most serious sense, a true lover. He -is the twin of Romeo. He has passion, humility, self-knowledge, a mind -lifted into all magnanimous thoughts, everything that goes with the -best kind of romantic love. His excellence in the art of love can only -be expressed by the somewhat violent expression that he is as good a -lover as Walter Gay is a bad one. Florence surely deserved her father’s -scorn if she could prefer Gay to Toots. It is neither a joke nor any -kind of exaggeration to say that in the vacillations of Toots, Dickens -not only came nearer to the psychology of true love than he ever came -elsewhere, but nearer than any one else ever came. To ask for the loved -one, and then not to dare to cross the threshold, to be invited by her, -to long to accept, and then to lie in order to decline, these are the -funny things that Mr. Toots did, and that every honest man who yells -with laughter at him has done also. For the moment, however, I only -mention this matter as a pendent case to the case of Major Bagstock, -an example of the way in which Dickens had to be ridiculous in order -to begin to be true. His characters that begin solemn end futile; -his characters that begin frivolous end solemn in the best sense. -His foolish figures are not only more entertaining than his serious -figures, they are also much more serious. The Marchioness is not only -much more laughable than Little Nell; she is also much more of all that -Little Nell was meant to be; much more really devoted, pathetic, and -brave. Dick Swiveller is not only a much funnier fellow than Kit, he -is also a much more genuine fellow, being free from that slight stain -of “meekness,” or the snobbishness of the respectable poor, which the -wise and perfect Chuckster wisely and perfectly perceived in Kit. Susan -Nipper is not only more of a comic character than Florence; she is more -of a heroine than Florence any day of the week. In “Our Mutual Friend” -we do not, for some reason or other, feel really very much excited -about the fall or rescue of Lizzie Hexam. She seems too romantic to -be really pathetic. But we do feel excited about the rescue of Miss -Lammle, because she is, like Toots, a holy fool; because her pink -nose and pink elbows, and candid outcry and open indecent affections -do convey to us a sense of innocence helpless among human dragons, -of Andromeda tied naked to a rock. Dickens had to make a character -humorous before he could make it human; it was the only way he knew, -and he ought to have always adhered to it. Whether he knew it or not, -the only two really touching figures in “Martin Chuzzlewit” are the -Misses Pecksniff. Of the things he tried to treat unsmilingly and -grandly we can all make game to our heart’s content. But when once he -has laughed at a thing it is sacred for ever. - -“Dombey,” however, means first and foremost the finale of the early -Dickens. It is difficult to say exactly in what it is that we perceive -that the old crudity ends there, and does not reappear in “David -Copperfield” or in any of the novels after it. But so certainly it -is. In detached scenes and characters, indeed, Dickens kept up his -farcical note almost or quite to the end. But this is the last farce; -this is the last work in which a farcical license is tacitly claimed, a -farcical note struck to start with. And in a sense his next novel may -be called his first novel. But the growth of this great novel, “David -Copperfield,” is a thing very interesting, but at the same time very -dark, for it is a growth in the soul. We have seen that Dickens’s -mind was in a stir of change; that he was dreaming of art, and even -of realism. Hugely delighted as he invariably was with his own books, -he was humble enough to be ambitious. He was even humble enough to be -envious. In the matter of art, for instance, in the narrower sense, -of arrangement and proportion in fictitious things, he began to be -conscious of his deficiency, and even, in a stormy sort of way, ashamed -of it; he tried to gain completeness even while raging at any one who -called him incomplete. And in this matter of artistic construction, his -ambition (and his success too) grew steadily up to the instant of his -death. The end finds him attempting things that are at the opposite -pole to the frank formlessness of “Pickwick.” His last book, “The -Mystery of Edwin Drood,” depends entirely upon construction, even upon -a centralized strategy. He staked everything upon a plot; he who had -been the weakest of plotters, weaker than Sim Tappertit. He essayed a -detective story, he who could never keep a secret; and he has kept it -to this day. A new Dickens was really being born when Dickens died. - -And as with art, so with reality. He wished to show that he could -construct as well as anybody. He also wished to show that he could be -as accurate as anybody. And in this connection (as in many others) we -must recur constantly to the facts mentioned in connection with America -and with his money-matters. We must recur, I mean, to the central fact -that his desires were extravagant in quantity, but not in quality; -that his wishes were excessive, but not eccentric. It must never be -forgotten that sanity was his ideal, even when he seemed almost insane. -It was thus with his literary aspirations. He was brilliant; but he -wished sincerely to be solid. Nobody out of an asylum could deny that -he was a genius and an unique writer; but he did not wish to be an -unique writer, but an universal writer. Much of the manufactured pathos -or rhetoric against which his enemies quite rightly rail, is really -due to his desire to give all sides of life at once, to make his book -a cosmos instead of a tale. He was sometimes really vulgar in his wish -to be a literary Whiteley, an universal provider. Thus it was that he -felt about realism and truth to life. Nothing is easier than to defend -Dickens as Dickens, but Dickens wished to be everybody else. Nothing -is easier than to defend Dickens’s world as a fairyland, of which he -alone has the key; to defend him as one defends Maeterlinck, or any -other original writer. But Dickens was not content with being original, -he had a wild wish to be true. He loved truth so much in the abstract -that he sacrificed to the shadow of it his own glory. He denied his own -divine originality, and pretended that he had plagiarized from life. He -disowned his own soul’s children, and said he had picked them up in the -street. - -And in this mixed and heated mood of anger and ambition, vanity and -doubt, a new and great design was born. He loved to be romantic, yet -he desired to be real. How if he wrote of a thing that was real and -showed that it was romantic? He loved real life; but he also loved his -own way. How if he wrote his own real life, but wrote it in his own -way? How if he showed the carping critics who doubted the existence -of his strange characters, his own yet stranger existence? How if -he forced these pedants and unbelievers to admit that Weller and -Pecksniff, Crummles and Swiveller, whom they thought so improbably wild -and wonderful, were less wild and wonderful than Charles Dickens? What -if he ended the quarrels about whether his romances could occur, by -confessing that his romance had occurred? - -For some time past, probably during the greater part of his life, he -had made notes for an autobiography. I have already quoted an admirable -passage from these notes, a passage reproduced in “David Copperfield,” -with little more alteration than a change of proper names--the -passage which describes Captain Porter and the debtor’s petition in -the Marshalsea. But he probably perceived at last what a less keen -intelligence must ultimately have perceived, that if an autobiography -is really to be honest it must be turned into a work of fiction. If it -is really to tell the truth, it must at all costs profess not to. No -man dare say of himself, over his own name, how badly he has behaved. -No man dare say of himself, over his own name, how well he has behaved. -Moreover, of course a touch of fiction is almost always essential -to the real conveying of fact, because fact, as experienced, has a -fragmentariness which is bewildering at first hand and quite blinding -at second hand. Facts have at least to be sorted into compartments and -the proper head and tail given to each. The perfection and pointedness -of art are a sort of substitute for the pungency of actuality. Without -this selection and completion our life seems a tangle of unfinished -tales, a heap of novels, all volume one. Dickens determined to make one -complete novel of it. - -For though there are many other aspects of “David Copperfield,” this -autobiographical aspect is, after all, the greatest. The point of the -book is, that unlike all the other books of Dickens, it is concerned -with quite common actualities, but it is concerned with them warmly -and with the war-like sympathies. It is not only both realistic and -romantic; it is realistic because it is romantic. It is human nature -described with the human exaggeration. We all know the actual types -in the book; they are not like the turgid and preternatural types -elsewhere in Dickens. They are not purely poetic creations like Mr. -Kenwiggs or Mr. Bunsby. We all know that they exist. We all know the -stiff-necked and humorous old-fashioned nurse, so conventional and -yet so original, so dependent and yet so independent. We all know the -intrusive stepfather, the abstract strange male, coarse, handsome, -sulky, successful; a breaker-up of homes. We all know the erect and -sardonic spinster, the spinster who is so mad in small things and so -sane in great ones. We all know the cock of the school; we all know -Steerforth, the creature whom the gods love and even the servants -respect. We know his poor and aristocratic mother, so proud, so -gratified, so desolate. We know the Rosa Dartle type, the lonely woman -in whom affection itself has stagnated into a sort of poison. - -But while these are real characters they are real characters lit -up with the colours of youth and passion. They are real people -romantically felt; that is to say, they are real people felt as real -people feel them. They are exaggerated, like all Dickens’s figures: -but they are not exaggerated as personalities are exaggerated by an -artist; they are exaggerated as personalities are exaggerated by their -own friends and enemies. The strong souls are seen through the glorious -haze of the emotions that strong souls really create. We have Murdstone -as he would be to a boy who hated him; and rightly, for a boy would -hate him. We have Steerforth as he would be to a boy who adored him; -and rightly, for a boy would adore him. It may be that if these persons -had a mere terrestrial existence, they appeared to other eyes more -insignificant. It may be that Murdstone in common life was only a heavy -business man with a human side that David was too sulky to find. It may -be that Steerforth was only an inch or two taller than David, and only -a shade or two above him in the lower middle classes; but this does not -make the book less true. In cataloguing the facts of life the author -must not omit that massive fact, illusion. - -When we say the book is true to life we must stipulate that it is -especially true to youth; even to boyhood. All the characters seem a -little larger than they really were, for David is looking up at them. -And the early pages of the book are in particular astonishingly vivid. -Parts of it seem like fragments of our forgotten infancy. The dark -house of childhood, the loneliness, the things half understood, the -nurse with her inscrutable sulks and her more inscrutable tenderness, -the sudden deportations to distant places, the seaside and its childish -friendships, all this stirs in us when we read it, like something out -of a previous existence. Above all, Dickens has excellently depicted -the child enthroned in that humble circle which only in after years he -perceives to have been humble. Modern and cultured persons, I believe, -object to their children seeing kitchen company or being taught by a -woman like Peggoty. But surely it is more important to be educated in -a sense of human dignity and equality than in anything else in the -world. And a child who has once had to respect a kind and capable woman -of the lower classes will respect the lower classes for ever. The true -way to overcome the evil in class distinctions is not to denounce them -as revolutionists denounce them, but to ignore them as children ignore -them. - -The early youth of David Copperfield is psychologically almost as good -as his childhood. In one touch especially Dickens pierced the very core -of the sensibility of boyhood; it was when he made David more afraid of -a manservant than of anybody or anything else. The lowering Murdstone, -the awful Mrs. Steerforth are not so alarming to him as Mr. Littimer, -the unimpeachable gentleman’s gentleman. This is exquisitely true to -the masculine emotions, especially in their undeveloped state. A youth -of common courage does not fear anything violent, but he is in mortal -fear of anything correct. This may or may not be the reason that so few -female writers understand their male characters, but this fact remains: -that the more sincere and passionate and even headlong a lad is the -more certain he is to be conventional. The bolder and freer he seems -the more the traditions of the college or the rules of the club will -hold him with their gyves of gossamer; and the less afraid he is of his -enemies the more cravenly he will be afraid of his friends. Herein lies -indeed the darkest peril of our ethical doubt and chaos. The fear is -that as morals become less urgent, manners will become more so; and men -who have forgotten the fear of God will retain the fear of Littimer. We -shall merely sink into a much meaner bondage. For when you break the -great laws, you do not get liberty; you do not even get anarchy. You -get the small laws. - -The sting and strength of this piece of fiction, then, do (by a rare -accident) lie in the circumstance that it was so largely founded on -fact. “David Copperfield” is the great answer of a great romancer to -the realists. David says in effect: “What! you say that the Dickens -tales are too purple really to have happened! Why, this is what -happened to me, and it seemed the most purple of all. You say that -the Dickens heroes are too handsome and triumphant! Why, no prince or -paladin in Ariosto was ever so handsome and triumphant as the Head -Boy seemed to me walking before me in the sun. You say the Dickens -villains are too black! Why, there was no ink in the devil’s ink-stand -black enough for my own stepfather when I had to live in the same house -with him. The facts are quite the other way to what you suppose. This -life of grey studies and half tones, the absence of which you regret -in Dickens, is only life as it is looked at. This life of heroes and -villains is life as it is lived. The life a man knows best is exactly -the life he finds most full of fierce certainties and battles between -good and ill--his own. Oh, yes, the life we do not care about may -easily be a psychological comedy. Other people’s lives may easily be -human documents. But a man’s own life is always a melodrama.” - -There are other effective things in “David Copperfield;” they are -not all autobiographical, but they nearly all have this new note of -quietude and reality. Micawber is gigantic; an immense assertion of the -truth that the way to live is to exaggerate everything. But of him I -shall have to speak more fully in another connection. Mrs. Micawber, -artistically speaking, is even better. She is very nearly the best -thing in Dickens. Nothing could be more absurd, and at the same time -more true, than her clear, argumentative manner of speech as she sits -smiling and expounding in the midst of ruin. What could be more lucid -and logical and unanswerable than her statement of the prolegomena -of the Medway problem, of which the first step must be to “see the -Medway,” or of the coal-trade, which required talent and capital. -“Talent Mr. Micawber has. Capital Mr. Micawber has not.” It seems as -if something should have come at last out of so clear and scientific -an arrangement of ideas. Indeed if (as has been suggested) we regard -“David Copperfield” as an unconscious defence of the poetic view of -life, we might regard Mrs. Micawber as an unconscious satire on the -logical view of life. She sits as a monument of the hopelessness and -helplessness of reason in the face of this romantic and unreasonable -world. - -As I have taken “Dombey and Son” as the book before the transition, -and “David Copperfield” as typical of the transition itself, I may -perhaps take “Bleak House” as the book after the transition. “Bleak -House” has every characteristic of his new realistic culture. Dickens -never, as in his early books, revels now in the parts he likes and -scamps the parts he does not, after the manner of Scott. He does not, -as in previous tales, leave his heroes and heroines mere walking -gentlemen and ladies with nothing at all to do but walk: he expends -upon them at least ingenuity. By the expedients (successful or not) -of the self-revelation of Esther or the humorous inconsistencies of -Rick, he makes his younger figures if not lovable at least readable. -Everywhere we see this tighter and more careful grip. He does not, for -instance, when he wishes to denounce a dark institution, sandwich it -in as a mere episode in a rambling story of adventure, as the debtor’s -prison is embedded in the body of Pickwick or the low Yorkshire school -in the body of Nicholas Nickleby. He puts the Court of Chancery in the -centre of the stage, a sombre and sinister temple, and groups round -it in artistic relation decaying and fantastic figures, its offspring -and its satirists. An old dipsomaniac keeps a rag and bone shop, type -of futility and antiquity, and calls himself the Lord Chancellor. A -little mad old maid hangs about the courts on a forgotten or imaginary -lawsuit, and says with perfect and pungent irony, “I am expecting a -judgment shortly, on the Day of Judgment.” Rick and Ada and Esther are -not mere strollers who have strayed into the court of law, they are -its children, its symbols, and its victims. The righteous indignation -of the book is not at the red heat of anarchy, but at the white heat -of art. Its anger is patient and plodding, like some historic revenge. -Moreover, it slowly and carefully creates the real psychology of -oppression. The endless formality, the endless unemotional urbanity, -the endless hope deferred, these things make one feel the fact of -injustice more than the madness of Nero. For it is not the activeness -of tyranny that maddens, but its passiveness. We hate the deafness of -the god more than his strength. Silence is the unbearable repartee. - -Again we can see in this book strong traces of an increase in social -experience. Dickens, as his fame carried him into more fashionable -circles, began really to understand something of what is strong and -what is weak in the English upper class. Sir Leicester Deadlock is a -far more effective condemnation of oligarchy than the ugly swagger of -Sir Mulberry Hawke, because pride stands out more plainly in all its -impotence and insolence as the one weakness of a good man, than as -one of the million weaknesses of a bad one. Dickens, like all young -Radicals, had imagined in his youth that aristocracy rested upon the -hardness of somebody; he found, as we all do, that it rests upon the -softness of everybody. It is very hard not to like Sir Leicester -Deadlock, not to applaud his silly old speeches, so foolish, so manly, -so genuinely English, so disastrous to England. It is true that the -English people love a lord, but it is not true that they fear him; -rather, if anything, they pity him; there creeps into their love -something of the feeling they have towards a baby or a black man. In -their hearts they think it admirable that Sir Leicester Deadlock should -be able to speak at all. And so a system, which no iron laws and no -bloody battles could possibly force upon a people, is preserved from -generation to generation by pure, weak good-nature. - -In “Bleak House” occurs the character of Harold Skimpole, the character -whose alleged likeness to Leigh Hunt has laid Dickens open to so -much disapproval. Unjust disapproval, I think, as far as fundamental -morals are concerned. In method he was a little clamorous and clumsy, -as, indeed, he was apt to be. But when he said that it was possible to -combine a certain tone of conversation taken from a particular man with -other characteristics which were not meant to be his, he surely said -what all men who write stories know. A work of fiction often consists -in combining a pair of whiskers seen in one street with a crime seen -in another. He may quite possibly have really meant only to make Leigh -Hunt’s light philosophy the mask for a new kind of scamp, as a variant -on the pious mask of Pecksniff or the candid mask of Bagstock. He may -never once have had the unfriendly thought, “Suppose Hunt behaved like -a rascal!” he may have only had the fanciful thought, “Suppose a rascal -behaved like Hunt!” - -But there is a good reason for mentioning Skimpole especially. In the -character of Skimpole, Dickens displayed again a quality that was very -admirable in him--I mean a disposition to see things sanely and to -satirize even his own faults. He was commonly occupied in satirizing -the Gradgrinds, the economists, the men of Smiles and Self-Help. For -him there was nothing poorer than their wealth, nothing more selfish -than their self-denial. And against them he was in the habit of -pitting the people of a more expansive habit--the happy Swivellers and -Micawbers, who, if they were poor, were at least as rich as their last -penny could make them. He loved that great Christian carelessness that -seeks its meat from God. It was merely a kind of uncontrollable honesty -that forced him into urging the other side. He could not disguise -from himself or from the world that the man who began by seeking -his meat from God might end by seeking his meat from his neighbour, -without apprising his neighbour of the fact. He had shown how good -irresponsibility could be; he could not stoop to hide how bad it could -be. He created Skimpole; and Skimpole is the dark underside of Micawber. - -In attempting Skimpole he attempted something with a great and urgent -meaning. He attempted it, I say; I do not assert that he carried it -through. As has been remarked, he was never successful in describing -psychological change; his characters are the same yesterday, to-day, -and for ever. And critics have complained very justly of the crude -villainy of Skimpole’s action in the matter of Joe and Mr. Bucket. -Certainly Skimpole had no need to commit a clumsy treachery to win -a clumsy bribe; he had only to call on Mr. Jarndyce. He had lost his -honour too long to need to sell it. - -The effect is bad; but I repeat that the aim was great. Dickens wished, -under the symbol of Skimpole, to point out a truth which is perhaps the -most terrible in moral psychology. I mean the fact that it is by no -means easy to draw the line between light and heavy offence. He desired -to show that there are no faults, however kindly, that we can afford to -flatter or to let alone; he meant that perhaps Skimpole had once been -as good a man as Swiveller. If flattered or let alone, our kindliest -fault can destroy our kindliest virtue. A thing may begin as a very -human weakness, and end as a very inhuman weakness. Skimpole means that -the extremes of evil are much nearer than we think. A man may begin by -being too generous to pay his debts, and end by being too mean to pay -his debts. For the vices are very strangely in league, and encourage -each other. A sober man may become a drunkard through being a coward. -A brave man may become a coward through being a drunkard. That is the -thing Dickens was darkly trying to convey in Skimpole--that a man might -become a mountain of selfishness if he attended only to the Dickens -virtues. There is nothing that can be neglected; there is no such -thing (he meant) as a peccadillo. - -I have dwelt on this consciousness of his because, alas, it had a -very sharp edge for himself. Even while he was permitting a fault, -originally small, to make a comedy of Skimpole, a fault, originally -small, was making a tragedy of Charles Dickens. For Dickens also had -a bad quality, not intrinsically very terrible, which he allowed to -wreck his life. He also had a small weakness that could sometimes -become stronger than all his strengths. His selfishness was not, it -need hardly be said, the selfishness of Gradgrind; he was particularly -compassionate and liberal. Nor was it in the least the selfishness of -Skimpole. He was entirely self-dependent, industrious, and dignified. -His selfishness was wholly a selfishness of the nerves. Whatever his -whim or the temperature of the instant told him to do, must be done. -He was the type of man who would break a window if it would not open -and give him air. And this weakness of his had, by the time of which we -speak, led to a breach between himself and his wife which he was too -exasperated and excited to heal in time. Everything must be put right, -and put right at once, with him. If London bored him, he must go to -the Continent at once; if the Continent bored him, he must come back -to London at once. If the day was too noisy, the whole household must -be quiet; if night was too quiet, the whole household must wake up. -Above all, he had this supreme character of the domestic despot--that -his good temper was, if possible, more despotic than his bad temper. -When he was miserable (as he often was, poor fellow), they only had to -listen to his railings. When he was happy they had to listen to his -novels. All this, which was mainly mere excitability, did not seem to -amount to much; it did not in the least mean that he had ceased to -be a clean-living and kind-hearted and quite honest man. But there -was this evil about it--that he did not resist his little weakness at -all; he pampered it as Skimpole pampered his. And it separated him and -his wife. A mere silly trick of temperament did everything that the -blackest misconduct could have done. A random sensibility, started -about the shuffling of papers or the shutting of a window, ended by -tearing two clean, Christian people from each other, like a blast of -bigamy or adultery. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - -LATER LIFE AND WORKS - - -I have deliberately in this book mentioned only such facts in the life -of Dickens as were, I will not say significant (for all facts must be -significant, including the million facts that can never be mentioned -by anybody), but such facts as illustrated my own immediate meaning. -I have observed this method consistently and without shame because I -think that we can hardly make too evident a chasm between books which -profess to be statements of all ascertainable facts, and books which -(like this one) profess only to contain a particular opinion or a -summary deducible from the facts. Books like Forster’s exhaustive work -and others exist, and are as accessible as St. Paul’s Cathedral; we -have them in common as we have the facts of the physical universe; and -it seems highly desirable that the function of making an exhaustive -catalogue and that of making an individual generalization should not -be confused. No catalogue, of course, can contain all the facts even -of five minutes; every catalogue, however long and learned, must be -not only a bold, but, one may say, an audacious selection. But if a -great many facts are given, the reader gains a blurred belief that -all the facts are being given. In a professedly personal judgment it -is therefore clearer and more honest to give only a few illustrative -facts, leaving the other obtainable facts to balance them. For thus -it is made quite clear that the thing is a sketch, an affair of a few -lines. - -It is as well, however, to make at this point a pause sufficient to -indicate the main course of the later life of the novelist. And it is -best to begin with the man himself, as he appeared in those last days -of popularity and public distinction. Many are still alive who remember -him in his after-dinner speeches, his lectures, and his many public -activities; as I am not one of these, I cannot correct my notions with -that flash of the living features without which a description may be -subtly and entirely wrong. Once a man is dead, if it be only yesterday, -the newcomer must piece him together from descriptions really as -much at random as if he were describing Cæsar or Henry II. Allowing, -however, for this inevitable falsity, a figure vivid and a little -fantastic, does walk across the stage of Forster’s “Life.” - -Dickens was of a middle size and his vivacity and relative physical -insignificance probably gave rather the impression of small size; -certainly of the absence of bulk. In early life he wore, even for that -epoch, extravagant clusters of brown hair, and in later years, a brown -moustache and a fringe of brown beard (cut like a sort of broad and -bushy imperial) sufficiently individual in shape to give him a faint -air as of a foreigner. His face had a peculiar tint or quality which -is hard to describe even after one has contrived to imagine it. It -was the quality which Mrs. Carlyle felt to be, as it were, metallic, -and compared to clear steel. It was, I think, a sort of pale glitter -and animation, very much alive and yet with something deathly about -it, like a corpse galvanized by a god. His face (if this was so) was -curiously a counterpart of his character. For the essence of Dickens’s -character was that it was at once tremulous and yet hard and sharp, -just as the bright blade of a sword is tremulous and yet hard and -sharp. He vibrated at every touch and yet he was indestructible; you -could bend him, but you could not break him. Brown of hair and beard, -somewhat pale of visage (especially in his later days of excitement -and ill-health) he had quite exceptionally bright and active eyes; -eyes that were always darting about like brilliant birds to pick up -all the tiny things of which he made more, perhaps, than any novelist -has done; for he was a sort of poetical Sherlock Holmes. The mouth -behind the brown beard was large and mobile, like the mouth of an -actor; indeed he was an actor, in many things too much of an actor. -In his lectures, in later years, he could turn his strange face into -any of the innumerable mad masks that were the faces of his grotesque -characters. He could make his face fall suddenly into the blank inanity -of Mrs. Raddle’s servant, or swell, as if to twice its size, into the -apoplectic energy of Mr. Sergeant Buzfuz. But the outline of his face -itself, from his youth upwards, was cut quite delicate and decisive, -and in repose and its own keen way, may even have looked effeminate. - -The dress of the comfortable classes during the later years of Dickens -was, compared with ours, somewhat slipshod and somewhat gaudy. It was -the time of loose pegtop trousers of an almost Turkish oddity, of -large ties, of loose short jackets and of loose long whiskers. Yet -even this expansive period, it must be confessed, considered Dickens a -little too flashy or, as some put it, too Frenchified in his dress. He -wore velvet coats; he wore wild waistcoats that were like incredible -sunsets; he wore large hats of an unnecessary and startling whiteness. -He did not mind being seen in sensational dressing-gowns; nay, he -had his portrait painted in one of them. All this is not meritorious; -neither is it particularly discreditable; it is a characteristic only, -but an important one. He was an absolutely independent and entirely -self-respecting man. But he had none of that old dusty, half-dignified -English feeling upon which Thackeray was so sensitive; I mean the -desire to be regarded as a private gentleman, which means at bottom the -desire to be left alone. This again is not a merit; it is only one of -the milder aspects of aristocracy. But meritorious or not, Dickens did -not possess it. He had no objection to being stared at, if he were also -admired. He did not exactly pose in the oriental manner of Disraeli; -his instincts were too clean for that; but he did pose somewhat in -the French manner, of some leaders like Mirabeau and Gambetta. Nor -had he the dull desire to “get on” which makes men die contented as -inarticulate Under Secretaries of State. He did not desire success -so much as fame, the old human glory, the applause and wonder of the -people. Such he was as he walked down the street in his white hat, -probably with a slight swagger. - -His private life consisted of one tragedy and ten thousand comedies. -By one tragedy I mean one real and rending moral tragedy--the failure -of his marriage. He loved his children dearly, and more than one of -them died; but in sorrows like these there is no violence and above -all no shame. The end of life is not tragic like the end of love. And -by the ten thousand comedies I mean the whole texture of his life, -his letters, his conversation, which were one incessant carnival of -insane and inspired improvisation. So far as he could prevent it, he -never permitted a day of his life to be ordinary. There was always -some prank, some impetuous proposal, some practical joke, some sudden -hospitality, some sudden disappearance. It is related of him (I give -one anecdote out of a hundred) that in his last visit to America, when -he was already reeling as it were under the blow that was to be mortal, -he remarked quite casually to his companions that a row of painted -cottages looked exactly like the painted shops in a pantomime. No -sooner had the suggestion passed his lips than he leapt at the nearest -doorway and in exact imitation of the clown in the harlequinade, beat -conscientiously with his fist, not on the door (for that would have -burst the canvas scenery of course), but on the side of the doorpost. -Having done this he lay down ceremoniously across the doorstep for -the owner to fall over him if he should come rushing out. He then -got up gravely and went on his way. His whole life was full of such -unexpected energies, precisely like those of the pantomime clown. -Dickens had indeed a great and fundamental affinity with the landscape, -or rather house-scape, of the harlequinade. He liked high houses, and -sloping roofs, and deep areas. But he would have been really happy if -some good fairy of the eternal pantomime had given him the power of -flying off the roofs and pitching harmlessly down the height of the -houses and bounding out of the areas like an indiarubber ball. The -divine lunatic in “Nicholas Nickleby” comes nearest to his dream. I -really think Dickens would rather have been that one of his characters -than any of the others. With what excitement he would have struggled -down the chimney. With what ecstatic energy he would have hurled the -cucumbers over the garden wall. - -His letters exhibit even more the same incessant creative force. His -letters are as creative as any of his literary creations. His shortest -postcard is often as good as his ablest novel; each one of them is -spontaneous; each one of them is different. He varies even the form and -shape of the letter as far as possible; now it is in absurd French! -now it is from one of his characters; now it is an advertisement for -himself as a stray dog. All of them are very funny; they are not only -very funny, but they are quite as funny as his finished and published -work. This is the ultimately amazing thing about Dickens; the amount -there is of him. He wrote, at the very least, sixteen thick important -books packed full of original creation. And if you had burnt them all -he could have written sixteen more, as a man writes idle letters to his -friend. - -In connection with this exuberant part of his nature there is another -thing to be noted, if we are to make a personal picture of him. Many -modern people, chiefly women, have been heard to object to the Bacchic -element in the books of Dickens, that celebration of social drinking as -a supreme symbol of social living, which those books share with almost -all the great literature of mankind, including the New Testament. -Undoubtedly there is an abnormal amount of drinking in a page of -Dickens, as there is an abnormal amount of fighting, say, in a page of -Dumas. If you reckon up the beers and brandies of Mr. Bob Sawyer, with -the care of an arithmetician and the deductions of a pathologist, they -rise alarmingly, like a rising tide at sea. Dickens did defend drink -clamorously, praised it with passion, and described whole orgies of -it with enormous gusto. Yet it is wonderfully typical of his prompt -and impatient nature that he himself drank comparatively little. He -was the type of man who could be so eager in praising the cup that -he left the cup untasted. It was a part of his active and feverish -temperament that he did not drink wine very much. But it was a part -of his humane philosophy, of his religion, that he did drink wine. To -healthy European philosophy, wine is a symbol; to European religion -it is a sacrament. Dickens approved it because it was a great human -institution, one of the rites of civilization, and this it certainly -is. The teetotaller who stands outside it may have perfectly clear -ethical reasons of his own, as a man may have who stands outside -education or nationality, who refuses to go to an University or to -serve in an Army. But he is neglecting one of the great social things -that man has added to nature. The teetotaller has chosen a most -unfortunate phrase for the drunkard when he says that the drunkard is -making a beast of himself. The man who drinks ordinarily makes nothing -but an ordinary man of himself. The man who drinks excessively makes -a devil of himself. But nothing connected with a human and artistic -thing like wine can bring one nearer to the brute life of nature. The -only man who is, in the exact and literal sense of the words, making a -beast of himself is the teetotaller. - -The tone of Dickens towards religion, though like that of most of his -contemporaries, philosophically disturbed and rather historically -ignorant, had an element that was very characteristic of himself. He -had all the prejudices of his time. He had, for instance, that dislike -of defined dogmas, which really means a preference for unexamined -dogmas. He had the usual vague notion that the whole of our human past -was packed with nothing but insane Tories. He had, in a word, all the -old Radical ignorances which went along with the old Radical acuteness -and courage and public spirit. But this spirit tended, in almost all -the others who held it, to a specific dislike of the Church of England; -and a disposition to set the other sects against it, as truer types -of inquiry, or of individualism. Dickens had a definite tenderness -for the Church of England. He might have even called it a weakness -for the Church of England, but he had it. Something in those placid -services, something in that reticent and humane liturgy pleased him -against all the tendencies of his time; pleased him in the best part -of himself, his virile love of charity and peace. Once, in a puff of -anger at the Church’s political stupidity (which is indeed profound), -he left it for a week or two and went to an Unitarian Chapel; in a -week or two he came back. This curious and sentimental hold of the -English Church upon him increased with years. In the book he was at -work on when he died he describes the Minor Canon, humble, chivalrous, -tender-hearted, answering with indignant simplicity the froth and -platform righteousness of the sectarian philanthropist. He upholds -Canon Crisparkle and satirizes Mr. Honeythunder. Almost every one of -the other Radicals, his friends, would have upheld Mr. Honeythunder and -satirized Canon Crisparkle. - -I have mentioned this matter for a special reason. It brings us back -to that apparent contradiction or dualism in Dickens to which, in one -connection or another, I have often adverted, and which, in one shape -or another, constitutes the whole crux of his character. I mean the -union of a general wildness approaching lunacy, with a sort of secret -moderation almost amounting to mediocrity. Dickens was, more or less, -the man I have described--sensitive, theatrical, amazing, a bit of a -dandy, a bit of a buffoon. Nor are such characteristics, whether weak -or wild, entirely accidents or externals. He had some false theatrical -tendencies integral in his nature. For instance, he had one most -unfortunate habit, a habit that often put him in the wrong, even when -he happened to be in the right. He had an incurable habit of explaining -himself. This reduced his admirers to the mental condition of the -authentic but hitherto uncelebrated little girl who said to her mother, -“I think I should understand if only you wouldn’t explain.” Dickens -always would explain. It was a part of that instinctive publicity of -his which made him at once a splendid democrat and a little too much of -an actor. He carried it to the craziest lengths. He actually wanted to -have printed in _Punch_, it is said, an apology for his own action in -the matter of his marriage. That incident alone is enough to suggest -that his external offers and proposals were sometimes like screams -heard from Bedlam. Yet it remains true that he had in him a central -part that was pleased only by the most decent and the most reposeful -rites, by things of which the Anglican prayer-book is very typical. It -is certainly true that he was often extravagant. It is most certainly -equally true that he detested and despised extravagance. - -The best explanation can be found in his literary genius. His literary -genius consisted in a contradictory capacity at once to entertain and -to deride--very ridiculous ideas. If he is a buffoon, he is laughing -at buffoonery. His books were in some ways the wildest on the face -of the world. Rabelais did not introduce into Paphlagonia or the -Kingdom of the Coqcigrues satiric figures more frantic and misshapen -than Dickens made to walk about the Strand and Lincoln’s Inn. But -for all that, you come, in the core of him, on a sudden quietude and -good sense. Such, I think, was the core of Rabelais, such were all -the far-stretching and violent satirists. This is a point essential -to Dickens, though very little comprehended in our current tone of -thought. Dickens was an immoderate jester, but a moderate thinker. He -was an immoderate jester because he was a moderate thinker. What we -moderns call the wildness of his imagination was actually created by -what we moderns call the tameness of his thought. I mean that he felt -the full insanity of all extreme tendencies, because he was himself -so sane; he felt eccentricities, because he was in the centre. We are -always, in these days, asking our violent prophets to write violent -satires; but violent prophets can never possibly write violent satires. -In order to write satire like that of Rabelais--satire that juggles -with the stars and kicks the world about like a football--it is -necessary to be one’s self temperate, and even mild. A modern man like -Nietzsche, a modern man like Gorky, a modern man like d’Annunzio, could -not possibly write real and riotous satire. They are themselves too -much on the borderlands. They could not be a success as caricaturists, -for they are already a great success as caricatures. - -I have mentioned his religious preference merely as an instance of -this interior moderation. To say, as some have done, that he attacked -Nonconformity is quite a false way of putting it. It is clean across -the whole trend of the man and his time to suppose that he could have -felt bitterness against any theological body as a theological body; but -anything like religious extravagance, whether Protestant or Catholic, -moved him to an extravagance of satire. And he flung himself into the -drunken energy of Stiggins, he piled up to the stars the “verbose -flights of stairs” of Mr. Chadband, exactly because his own conception -of religion was the quiet and impersonal Morning Prayer. It is typical -of him that he had a peculiar hatred for speeches at the graveside. - -An even clearer case of what I mean can be found in his political -attitude. He seemed to some an almost anarchic satirist. He made equal -fun of the systems which reformers made war on, and of the instruments -on which reformers relied. He made no secret of his feeling that the -average English premier was an accidental ass. In two superb sentences -he summed up and swept away the whole British constitution: “England, -for the last week, has been in an awful state. Lord Coodle would go -out, Sir Thomas Doodle wouldn’t come in, and there being no people in -England to speak of except Coodle and Doodle, the country has been -without a government.” He lumped all cabinets and all government -offices together, and made the same game of them all. He created his -most staggering humbugs, his most adorable and incredible idiots, -and set them on the highest thrones of our national system. To many -moderate and progressive people, such a satirist seemed to be insulting -heaven and earth, ready to wreck society for some mad alternative, -prepared to pull down St. Paul’s, and on its ruins erect a gory -guillotine. Yet, as a matter of fact, this apparent wildness of his -came from his being, if anything, a very moderate politician. It came, -not at all from fanaticism, but from a rather rational detachment. He -had the sense to see that the British constitution was not democracy, -but the British constitution. It was an artificial system--like any -other, good in some ways, bad in others. His satire of it sounded wild -to those that worshipped it; but his satire of it arose not from his -having any wild enthusiasm against it, but simply from his not having, -like every one else, a wild enthusiasm for it. Alone, as far as I know, -among all the great Englishmen of that age, he realized the thing -that Frenchmen and Irishmen understand. I mean the fact that popular -government is one thing, and representative government another. He -realized that representative government has many minor disadvantages, -one of them being that it is never representative. He speaks of his -“hope to have made every man in England feel something of the contempt -for the House of Commons that I have.” He says also these two things, -both of which are wonderfully penetrating as coming from a good Radical -in 1855, for they contain a perfect statement of the peril in which we -now stand, and which may, if it please God, sting us into avoiding the -long vista at the end of which one sees so clearly the dignity and the -decay of Venice-- - -“I am hourly strengthened,” he says, “in my old belief, that our -political aristocracy and our tuft-hunting are the death of England. -In all this business I don’t see a gleam of hope. As to the popular -spirit, it has come to be so entirely separated from the Parliament -and the Government, and so perfectly apathetic about them both, -that I seriously think it a most portentous sign.” And he says also -this: “I really am serious in thinking--and I have given as painful -consideration to the subject as a man with children to live and suffer -after him can possibly give it--that representative government is -become altogether a failure with us, that the English gentilities and -subserviences render the people unfit for it, and the whole thing has -broken down since the great seventeenth century time, and has no hope -in it.” - -These are the words of a wise and perhaps melancholy man, but certainly -not of an unduly excited one. It is worth noting, for instance, how -much more directly Dickens goes to the point than Carlyle did, who -noted many of the same evils. But Carlyle fancied that our modern -English government was wordy and long-winded because it was democratic -government. Dickens saw, what is certainly the fact, that it is wordy -and long-winded because it is aristocratic government, the two most -pleasant aristocratic qualities being a love of literature and an -unconsciousness of time. But all this amounts to the same conclusion of -the matter. Frantic figures like Stiggins and Chadband were created out -of the quietude of his religious preference. Wild creations like the -Barnacles and the Bounderbys were produced in a kind of ecstasy of the -ordinary, of the obvious in political justice. His monsters were made -out of his level and his moderation, as the old monsters were made out -of the level sea. - -Such was the man of genius we must try to imagine; violently emotional, -yet with a good judgment; pugnacious, but only when he thought himself -oppressed; prone to think himself oppressed, yet not cynical about -human motives. He was a man remarkably hard to understand or to -reanimate. He almost always had reasons for his action; his error was -that he always expounded them. Sometimes his nerve snapped; and then he -was mad. Unless it did so he was quite unusually sane. - -Such a rough sketch at least must suffice us in order to summarize -his later years. Those years were occupied, of course, in two main -additions to his previous activities. The first was the series of -public readings and lectures which he now began to give systematically. -The second was his successive editorship of _Household Words_ and of -_All the Year Round_. He was of a type that enjoys every new function -and opportunity. He had been so many things in his life, a reporter, an -actor, a conjurer, a poet. As he had enjoyed them all, so he enjoyed -being a lecturer, and enjoyed being an editor. It is certain that his -audiences (who sometimes stacked themselves so thick that they lay -flat on the platform all round him) enjoyed his being a lecturer. It -is not so certain that the sub-editors enjoyed his being an editor. -But in both connections the main matter of importance is the effect -on the permanent work of Dickens himself. The readings were important -for this reason, that they fixed, as if by some public and pontifical -pronouncement, what was Dickens’s interpretation of Dickens’s work. -Such a knowledge is mere tradition, but it is very forcible. My own -family has handed on to me, and I shall probably hand on to the next -generation, a definite memory of how Dickens made his face suddenly -like the face of an idiot in impersonating Mrs. Raddle’s servant, -Betsy. This does serve one of the permanent purposes of tradition; it -does make it a little more difficult for any ingenious person to prove -that Betsy was meant to be a brilliant satire on the over-cultivation -of the intellect. - -As for his relation to his two magazines, it is chiefly important, -first for the admirable things that he wrote in the magazines himself -(one cannot forbear to mention the inimitable monologue of the waiter -in “Somebody’s Luggage”), and secondly for the fact that in his -capacity of editor he made one valuable discovery. He discovered -Wilkie Collins. Wilkie Collins was the one man of unmistakable genius -who has a certain affinity with Dickens; an affinity in this respect, -that they both combine in a curious way a modern and cockney and even -commonplace opinion about things with a huge elemental sympathy with -strange oracles and spirits and old night. There were no two men in -Mid-Victorian England, with their top-hats and umbrellas, more typical -of its rationality and dull reform; and there were no two men who could -touch them at a ghost story. No two men would have more contempt for -superstitions; and no two men could so create the superstitious thrill. -Indeed, our modern mystics make a mistake when they wear long hair or -loose ties to attract the spirits. The elves and the old gods when they -revisit the earth really go straight for a dull top-hat. For it means -simplicity, which the gods love. - -Meanwhile his books, which, as brilliant as ever, were appearing -from time to time, bore witness to that increasing tendency to a -more careful and responsible treatment which we have marked in the -transition which culminated in “Bleak House.” His next important -book, “Hard Times,” strikes an almost unexpected note of severity. -The characters are indeed exaggerated, but they are bitterly and -deliberately exaggerated; they are not exaggerated with the old -unconscious high spirits of Nicholas Nickleby or Martin Chuzzlewit. -Dickens exaggerates Bounderby because he really hates him. He -exaggerated Pecksniff because he really loved him. “Hard Times” is not -one of the greatest books of Dickens; but it is perhaps in a sense -one of his greatest monuments. It stamps and records the reality of -Dickens’s emotion on a great many things that were then considered -unphilosophical grumblings, but which since have swelled into the -immense phenomenon of the socialist philosophy. To call Dickens a -Socialist is a wild exaggeration; but the truth and peculiarity of his -position might be expressed thus: that even when everybody thought -that Liberalism meant individualism he was emphatically a Liberal -and emphatically not an individualist. Or the truth might be better -still stated in this manner: that he saw that there was a secret -thing, called humanity, to which both extreme socialism and extreme -individualism were profoundly and inexpressibly indifferent, and that -this permanent and presiding humanity was the thing he happened to -understand; he knew that individualism is nothing and non-individualism -is nothing but the keeping of the commandment of man. He felt, as a -novelist should, that the question is too much discussed as to whether -a man is in favour of this or that scientific philosophy; that there -is another question, whether the scientific philosophy is in favour -of the man. That is why such books as “Hard Times” will remain always -a part of the power and tradition of Dickens. He saw that economic -systems are not things like the stars, but things like the lamp-posts, -manifestations of the human mind, and things to be judged by the human -heart. - -Thenceforward until the end his books grow consistently graver and, as -it were, more responsible; he improves as an artist if not always as a -creator. “Little Dorrit” (published in 1857) is at once in some ways so -much more subtle and in every way so much more sad than the rest of his -work that it bores Dickensians and especially pleases George Gissing. -It is the only one of the Dickens tales which could please Gissing, -not only by its genius, but also by its atmosphere. There is something -a little modern and a little sad, something also out of tune with the -main trend of Dickens’s moral feeling, about the description of the -character of Dorrit as actually and finally weakened by his wasting -experiences, as not lifting any cry above the conquered years. It is -but a faint fleck of shadow. But the illimitable white light of human -hopefulness, of which I spoke at the beginning, is ebbing away, the -work of the revolution is growing weaker everywhere; and the night of -necessitarianism cometh when no man can work. For the first time in a -book by Dickens perhaps we really do feel that the hero is forty-five. -Clennam is certainly very much older than Mr. Pickwick. - -This was indeed only a fugitive grey cloud; he went on to breezier -operations. But whatever they were, they still had the note of the -later days. They have a more cautious craftsmanship; they have a more -mellow and a more mixed human sentiment. Shadows fell upon his page -from the other and sadder figures out of the Victorian decline. A good -instance of this is his next book, “The Tale of Two Cities” (1859). -In dignity and eloquence it almost stands alone among the books by -Dickens, but it also stands alone among his books in this respect, that -it is not entirely by Dickens. It owes its inspiration avowedly to the -passionate and cloudy pages of Carlyle’s “French Revolution.” And there -is something quite essentially inconsistent between Carlyle’s disturbed -and half-sceptical transcendentalism and the original school and spirit -to which Dickens belonged, the lucid and laughing decisiveness of the -old convinced and contented Radicalism. Hence the genius of Dickens -cannot save him, just as the great genius of Carlyle could not save him -from making a picture of the French Revolution, which was delicately -and yet deeply erroneous. Both tend too much to represent it as a mere -elemental outbreak of hunger or vengeance; they do not see enough -that it was a war for intellectual principles, even for intellectual -platitudes. We, the modern English, cannot easily understand the French -Revolution, because we cannot easily understand the idea of bloody -battle for pure common sense; we cannot understand common sense in arms -and conquering. In modern England common sense appears to mean putting -up with existing conditions. For us a practical politician really means -a man who can be thoroughly trusted to do nothing at all; that is where -his practicality comes in. The French feeling--the feeling at the back -of the Revolution--was that the more sensible a man was, the more you -must look out for slaughter. - -In all the imitators of Carlyle, including Dickens, there is an obscure -sentiment that the thing for which the Frenchmen died must have been -something new and queer, a paradox, a strange idolatry. But when such -blood ran in the streets, it was for the sake of a truism; when those -cities were shaken to their foundations, they were shaken to their -foundations by a truism. - -I have mentioned this historical matter because it illustrates these -later and more mingled influences which at once improve and as it were -perplex the later work of Dickens. For Dickens had in his original -mental composition capacities for understanding this cheery and -sensible element in the French Revolution far better than Carlyle. -The French Revolution was, among other things, French, and, so far -as that goes, could never have a precise counterpart in so jolly and -autochthonous an Englishman as Charles Dickens. But there was a great -deal of the actual and unbroken tradition of the Revolution itself in -his early radical indictments; in his denunciations of the Fleet Prison -there was a great deal of the capture of the Bastille. There was, above -all, a certain reasonable impatience which was the essence of the old -Republican, and which is quite unknown to the Revolutionist in modern -Europe. The old Radical did not feel exactly that he was “in revolt;” -he felt if anything that a number of idiotic institutions had revolted -against reason and against him. Dickens, I say, had the revolutionary -idea, though an English form of it, by clear and conscious inheritance; -Carlyle had to rediscover the Revolution by a violence of genius and -vision. If Dickens, then, took from Carlyle (as he said he did) his -image of the Revolution, it does certainly mean that he had forgotten -something of his own youth and come under the more complex influences -of the end of the nineteenth century. His old hilarious and sentimental -view of human nature seems for a moment dimmed in “Little Dorrit.” His -old political simplicity has been slightly disturbed by Carlyle. - -I repeat that this graver note is varied, but it remains a graver -note. We see it struck, I think, with particular and remarkable -success in “Great Expectations” (1860–61). This fine story is told -with a consistency and quietude of individuality which is rare in -Dickens. But so far had he travelled along the road of a heavier -reality, that he even intended to give the tale an unhappy ending, -making Pip lose Estella for ever; and he was only dissuaded from it -by the robust romanticism of Bulwer-Lytton. But the best part of the -tale--the account of the vacillations of the hero between the humble -life to which he owes everything, and the gorgeous life from which -he expects something, touch a very true and somewhat tragic part of -morals; for the great paradox of morality (the paradox to which only -the religions have given an adequate expression) is that the very -vilest kind of fault is exactly the most easy kind. We read in books -and ballads about the wild fellow who might kill a man or smoke opium, -but who would never stoop to lying or cowardice or to “anything mean.” -But for actual human beings opium and slaughter have only occasional -charm; the permanent human temptation is the temptation to be mean. -The one standing probability is the probability of becoming a cowardly -hypocrite. The circle of the traitors is the lowest of the abyss, -and it is also the easiest to fall into. That is one of the ringing -realities of the Bible, that it does not make its great men commit -grand sins; it makes its great men (such as David and St. Peter) commit -small sins and behave like sneaks. - -Dickens has dealt with this easy descent of desertion, this silent -treason, with remarkable accuracy in the account of the indecisions of -Pip. It contains a good suggestion of that weak romance which is the -root of all snobbishness: that the mystery which belongs to patrician -life excites us more than the open, even the indecent virtues of the -humble. Pip is keener about Miss Havisham, who may mean well by him, -than about Joe Gargery, who evidently does. All this is very strong -and wholesome; but it is still a little stern. “Our Mutual Friend” -(1864) brings us back a little into his merrier and more normal -manner; some of the satire, such as that upon Veneering’s election, -is in the best of his old style, so airy and fanciful, yet hitting so -suddenly and so hard. But even here we find the fuller and more serious -treatment of psychology; notably in the two facts that he creates a -really human villain, Bradley Headstone, and also one whom we might -call a really human hero, Eugene, if it were not that he is much too -human to be called a hero at all. It has been said (invariably by cads) -that Dickens never described a gentleman; it is like saying that he -never described a zebra. A gentleman is a very rare animal among human -creatures, and to people like Dickens, interested in all humanity, not -a supremely important one. But in Eugene Wrayburne he does, whether -consciously or not, turn that accusation with a vengeance. For he -not only describes a gentleman but describes the inner weakness and -peril that belong to a gentleman, the devil that is always rending the -entrails of an idle and agreeable man. In Eugene’s purposeless pursuit -of Lizzie Hexam, in his yet more purposeless torturing of Bradley -Headstone, the author has marvellously realized that singular empty -obstinacy that drives the whims and pleasures of a leisured class. He -sees that there is nothing that such a man more stubbornly adheres to, -than the thing that he does not particularly want to do. We are still -in serious psychology. - -His last book represents yet another new departure, dividing him from -the chaotic Dickens of days long before. His last book is not merely -an attempt to improve his power of construction in a story: it is an -attempt to rely entirely on that power of construction. It not only -has a plot, it is a plot. “The Mystery of Edwin Drood” (1870) was -in such a sense, perhaps, the most ambitious book that Dickens ever -attempted. It is, as every one knows, a detective story, and certainly -a very successful one, as is attested by the tumult of discussion -as to its proper solution. In this, quite apart from its unfinished -state, it stands, I think, alone among the author’s works. Elsewhere, -if he introduced a mystery, he seldom took the trouble to make it very -mysterious. “Our Mutual Friend” was finished, but if only half of it -were readable, I think any one could see that John Rokesmith was John -Harman. “Bleak House” is finished, but if it were only half finished -I think any one would guess that Lady Deadlock and Nemo had sinned in -the past. “Edwin Drood” is not finished; for in the very middle of it -Dickens died. - -He had altogether overstrained himself in a last lecturing tour in -America. He was a man in whom any serious malady would naturally make -very rapid strides; for he had the temper of an irrational invalid. -I have said before that there was in his curious character something -that was feminine. Certainly there was nothing more entirely feminine -than this, that he worked because he was tired. Fatigue bred in him a -false and feverish industry, and his case increased, like the case of -a man who drinks to cure the effects of drink. He died in 1870; and -the whole nation mourned him as no public man has ever been mourned; -for prime ministers and princes were private persons compared with -Dickens. He had been a great popular king, like a king of some more -primal age whom his people could come and see, giving judgment under an -oak tree. He had in essence held great audiences of millions, and made -proclamations to more than one of the nations of the earth. His obvious -omnipresence in every part of public life was like the omnipresence -of the sovereign. His secret omnipresence in every house and hut of -private life was more like the omnipresence of a deity. Compared with -that popular leadership all the fusses of the last forty years are -diversions in idleness. Compared with such a case as his it may be said -that we play with our politicians, and manage to endure our authors. We -shall never have again such a popularity until we have again a people. - -He left behind him this almost sombre fragment, “The Mystery of Edwin -Drood.” As one turns it over the tragic element of its truncation -mingles somewhat with an element of tragedy in the thing itself; the -passionate and predestined Landless, or the half maniacal Jasper -carving devils out of his own heart. The workmanship of it is very -fine; the right hand has not only not lost, but is still gaining its -cunning. But as we turn the now enigmatic pages the thought creeps into -us again which I have suggested earlier, and which is never far off the -mind of a true lover of Dickens. Had he lost or gained by the growth of -technique and probability in his later work? His later characters were -more like men; but were not his earlier characters more like immortals? -He has become able to perform a social scene so that it is possible at -any rate; but where is that Dickens who once performed the impossible? -Where is that young poet who created such majors and architects as -nature will never dare to create? Dickens learnt to describe daily -life as Thackeray and Jane Austen could describe it; but Thackeray -could not have thought such a thought as Crummles; and it is painful -to think of Miss Austen attempting to imagine Mantalini. After all, we -feel there are many able novelists; but there is only one Dickens, and -whither has he fled? - -He was alive to the end. And in this last dark and secretive story of -Edwin Drood he makes one splendid and staggering appearance, like a -magician saying farewell to mankind. In the centre of this otherwise -reasonable and rather melancholy book, this grey story of a good -clergyman and the quiet Cloisterham Towers, Dickens has calmly inserted -one entirely delightful and entirely insane passage. I mean the frantic -and inconceivable epitaph of Mrs. Sapsea, that which describes her as -“the reverential wife” of Thomas Sapsea, speaks of her consistency in -“Looking up to him,” and ends with the words, spaced out so admirably -on the tombstone, “Stranger pause. And ask thyself this question, -Canst thou do likewise? If not, with a blush retire.” Not the wildest -tale in Pickwick contains such an impossibility as that; Dickens dare -scarcely have introduced it, even as one of Jingle’s lies. In no human -churchyard will you find that invaluable tombstone; indeed, you could -scarcely find it in any world where there are churchyards. You could -scarcely have such immortal folly as that in a world where there is -also death. Mr. Sapsea is one of the golden things stored up for us in -a better world. - -Yes, there were many other Dickenses: a clever Dickens, an industrious -Dickens, a public-spirited Dickens; but this was the great one. This -last outbreak of insane humour reminds us wherein lay his power and -his supremacy. The praise of such beatific buffoonery should be the -final praise, the ultimate word in his honour. The wild epitaph of Mrs. -Sapsea should be the serious epitaph of Dickens. - - - - -CHAPTER X - -THE GREAT DICKENS CHARACTERS - - -All criticism tends too much to become criticism of criticism; and the -reason is very evident. It is that criticism of creation is so very -staggering a thing. We see this in the difficulty of criticizing any -artistic creation. We see it again in the difficulty of criticizing -that creation which is spelt with a capital C. The pessimists who -attack the Universe are always under this disadvantage. They have -an exhilarating consciousness that they could make the sun and moon -better; but they also have the depressing consciousness that they could -not make the sun and moon at all. A man looking at a hippopotamus may -sometimes be tempted to regard a hippopotamus as an enormous mistake; -but he is also bound to confess that a fortunate inferiority prevents -him personally from making such mistakes. It is neither a blasphemy nor -an exaggeration to say that we feel something of the same difficulty -in judging of the very creative element in human literature. And this -is the first and last dignity of Dickens; that he was a creator. He -did not point out things, he made them. We may disapprove of Mr. Guppy, -but we recognize him as a creation flung down like a miracle out of an -upper sphere; we can pull him to pieces, but we could not have put him -together. We can destroy Mrs. Gamp in our wrath, but we could not have -made her in our joy. Under this disadvantage any book about Dickens -must definitely labour. Real primary creation (such as the sun or the -birth of a child) calls forth not criticism, not appreciation, but a -kind of incoherent gratitude. This is why most hymns about God are -bad; and this is why most eulogies on Dickens are bad. The eulogists -of the divine and of the human creator are alike inclined to appear -sentimentalists because they are talking about something so very real. -In the same way love-letters always sound florid and artificial because -they are about something real. - -Any chapter such as this chapter must therefore in a sense be -inadequate. There is no way of dealing properly with the ultimate -greatness of Dickens, except by offering sacrifice to him as a god; and -this is opposed to the etiquette of our time. But something can perhaps -be done in the way of suggesting what was the quality of this creation. -But even in considering its quality we ought to remember that quality -is not the whole question. One of the godlike things about Dickens is -his quantity, his quantity as such, the enormous output, the incredible -fecundity of his invention. I have said a moment ago that not one of -us could have invented Mr. Guppy. But even if we could have stolen Mr. -Guppy from Dickens we have still to confront the fact that Dickens -would have been able to invent another quite inconceivable character to -take his place. Perhaps we could have created Mr. Guppy; but the effort -would certainly have exhausted us; we should be ever afterwards wheeled -about in a bath-chair at Bournemouth. - -Nevertheless there is something that is worth saying about the quality -of Dickens. At the very beginning of this review I remarked that the -reader must be in a mood, at least, of democracy. To some it may have -sounded irrelevant; but the Revolution was as much behind all the books -of the nineteenth century as the Catholic religion (let us say) was -behind all the colours and carving of the Middle Ages. Another great -name of the nineteenth century will afford an evidence of this; and -will also bring us most sharply to the problem of the literary quality -of Dickens. - -Of all these nineteenth century writers there is none, in the noblest -sense, more democratic than Walter Scott. As this may be disputed, -and as it is relevant, I will expand the remark. There are two -rooted spiritual realities out of which grow all kinds of democratic -conception or sentiment of human equality. There are two things in -which all men are manifestly unmistakably equal. They are not equally -clever or equally muscular or equally fat, as the sages of the modern -reaction (with piercing insight) perceive. But this is a spiritual -certainty, that all men are tragic. And this again, is an equally -sublime spiritual certainty, that all men are comic. No special and -private sorrow can be so dreadful as the fact of having to die. And no -freak or deformity can be so funny as the mere fact of having two legs. -Every man is important if he loses his life; and every man is funny -if he loses his hat, and has to run after it. And the universal test -everywhere of whether a thing is popular, of the people, is whether it -employs vigorously these extremes of the tragic and the comic. Shelley, -for instance, was an aristocrat, if ever there was one in this world. -He was a Republican, but he was not a democrat: in his poetry there is -every perfect quality except this pungent and popular stab. For the -tragic and the comic you must go, say, to Burns, a poor man. And all -over the world, the folk literature, the popular literature, is the -same. It consists of very dignified sorrow and very undignified fun. -Its sad tales are of broken hearts; its happy tales are of broken heads. - -These, I say, are two roots of democratic reality. But they have in -more civilized literature, a more civilized embodiment or form. In -literature such as that of the nineteenth century the two elements -appear somewhat thus. Tragedy becomes a profound sense of human -dignity. The other and jollier element becomes a delighted sense of -human variety. The first supports equality by saying that all men are -equally sublime. The second supports equality by observing that all men -are equally interesting. - -In this democratic aspect the interest and variety of all men, there -is, of course, no democrat so great as Dickens. But in the other -matter, in the idea of the dignity of all men, I repeat that there -is no democrat so great as Scott. This fact, which is the moral and -enduring magnificence of Scott, has been astonishingly overlooked. -His rich and dramatic effects are gained in almost every case by some -grotesque or beggarly figure rising into a human pride and rhetoric. -The common man, in the sense of the paltry man, becomes the common -man in the sense of the universal man. He declares his humanity. -For the meanest of all the modernites has been the notion that the -heroic is an oddity or variation, and that the things that unite us -are merely flat or foul. The common things are terrible and startling, -death, for instance, and first love: the things that are common are -the things that are not commonplace. Into such high and central -passions the comic Scott character will suddenly rise. Remember the -firm and almost stately answer of the preposterous Nicol Jarvie when -Helen Macgregor seeks to browbeat him into condoning lawlessness and -breaking his bourgeois decency. That speech is a great monument of -the middle class. Molière made M. Jourdain talk prose; but Scott made -him talk poetry. Think of the rising and rousing voice of the dull -and gluttonous Athelstane when he answers and overwhelms De Bracy. -Think of the proud appeal of the old beggar in the “Antiquary” when he -rebukes the duellists. Scott was fond of describing kings in disguise. -But all his characters are kings in disguise. He was, with all his -errors, profoundly possessed with the old religious conception (the -only possible democratic basis), the idea that man himself is a king in -disguise. - -In all this Scott, though a Royalist and a Tory, had in the strangest -way the heart of the Revolution. For instance, he regarded rhetoric, -the art of the orator, as the immediate weapon of the oppressed. All -his poor men make grand speeches, as they did in the Jacobin Club, -which Scott would have so much detested. And it is odd to reflect that -he was, as an author, giving free speech to fictitious rebels while he -was, as a stupid politician, denying it to real ones. But the point for -us here is this: that all this popular sympathy of his rests on the -graver basis, on the dark dignity of man. “Can you find no way?” asks -Sir Arthur Wardour of the beggar when they are cut off by the tide. -“I’ll give you a farm.... I’ll make you rich.” ... “Our riches will -soon be equal,” says the beggar, and looks out across the advancing sea. - -Now, I have dwelt on this strong point of Scott because it is the best -illustration of the one weak point of Dickens. Dickens had little or -none of this sense of the concealed sublimity of every separate man. -Dickens’s sense of democracy was entirely of the other kind; it rested -on the other of the two supports of which I have spoken. It rested on -the sense that all men were wildly interesting and wildly varied. When -a Dickens character becomes excited he becomes more and more himself. -He does not, like the Scott beggar, turn more and more into man. As -he rises he grows more and more into a gargoyle or grotesque. He does -not, like the fine speaker in Scott, grow more classical as he grows -more passionate, more universal as he grows more intense. The thing -can only be illustrated by a special case. Dickens did more than once, -of course, make one of his quaint or humble characters assert himself -in a serious crisis or defy the powerful. There is, for instance, the -quite admirable scene in which Susan Nipper (one of the greatest of -Dickens’s achievements) faces and rebukes Mr. Dombey. But it is still -true (and quite appropriate in its own place and manner) that Susan -Nipper remains a purely comic character throughout her speech, and -even grows more comic as she goes on. She is more serious than usual -in her meaning, but not more serious in her style. Dickens keeps the -natural diction of Nipper, but makes her grow more Nipperish as she -grows more warm. But Scott keeps the natural diction of Bailie Jarvie, -but insensibly sobers and uplifts that style until it reaches a plain -and appropriate eloquence. This plain and appropriate eloquence was -(except in a few places at the end of “Pickwick”) almost unknown to -Dickens. Whenever he made comic characters talk sentiment comically, -as in the instance of Susan, it was a success, but an avowedly -extravagant success. Whenever he made comic characters talk sentiment -seriously it was an extravagant failure. Humour was his medium; his -only way of approaching emotion. Wherever you do not get humour, you -get unconscious humour. - -As I have said elsewhere in this book Dickens was deeply and radically -English; the most English of our great writers. And there is something -very English in this contentment with a grotesque democracy; and in -this absence of the eloquence and elevation of Scott. The English -democracy is the most humorous democracy in the world. The Scotch -democracy is the most dignified, while the whole abandon and satiric -genius of the English populace come from its being quite undignified in -every way. A comparison of the two types might be found, for instance, -by putting a Scotch Labour leader like Mr. Keir Hardie alongside an -English Labour leader like Mr. Will Crooks. Both are good men, honest -and responsible and compassionate; but we can feel that the Scotchman -carries himself seriously and universally, the Englishman personally -and with an obstinate humour. Mr. Hardie wishes to hold up his head as -Man, Mr. Crooks wishes to follow his nose as Crooks. Mr. Keir Hardie is -very like a poor man in Walter Scott. Mr. Crooks is very like a poor -man in Dickens. - -Dickens then had this English feeling of a grotesque democracy. By that -is more properly meant a vastly varying democracy. The intoxicating -variety of men--that was his vision and conception of human -brotherhood. And certainly it is a great part of human brotherhood. -In one sense things can only be equal if they are entirely different. -Thus, for instance, people talk with a quite astonishing gravity about -the inequality or equality of the sexes; as if there could possibly be -any inequality between a lock and a key. Wherever there is no element -of variety, wherever the items literally have an identical aim, there -is at once and of necessity inequality. A woman is only inferior to -man in the matter of being not so manly; she is inferior in nothing -else. Man is inferior to woman in so far as he is not a woman; there -is no other reason. And the same applies in some degree to all genuine -differences. It is a great mistake to suppose that love unites and -unifies men. Love diversifies them, because love is directed towards -individuality. The thing that really unites men and makes them like to -each other is hatred. Thus, for instance, the more we love Germany the -more pleased we shall be that Germany should be something different -from ourselves, should keep her own ritual and conviviality and we -ours. But the more we hate Germany the more we shall copy German guns -and German fortifications in order to be armed against Germany. The -more modern nations detest each other the more meekly they follow -each other; for all competition is in its nature only a furious -plagiarism. As competition means always similarity, it is equally true -that similarity always means inequality. If everything is trying to -be green, some things will be greener than others; but there is an -immortal and indestructible equality between green and red. Something -of the same kind of irrefutable equality exists between the violent and -varying creations of such a writer as Dickens. They are all equally -ecstatic fulfilments of a separate line of development. It would be -hard to say that there could be any comparison or inequality, let us -say between Mr. Sapsea and Mr. Elijah Pogram. They are both in the same -difficulty; they can neither of them contrive to exist in this world; -they are both too big for the gate of birth. - -Of the high virtue of this variation I shall speak more adequately -in a moment; but certainly this love of mere variation (which I have -contrasted with the classicism of Scott) is the only intelligent -statement of the common case against the exaggeration of Dickens. This -is the meaning, the only sane or endurable meaning, which people have -in their minds when they say that Dickens is a mere caricaturist. -They do not mean merely that Uncle Pumblechook does not exist. A -fictitious character ought not to be a person who exists; he ought to -be an entirely new combination, an addition to the creatures already -existing on the earth. They do not mean that Uncle Pumblechook could -not exist; for on that obviously they can have no knowledge whatever. -They do not mean that Uncle Pumblechook’s utterances are selected and -arranged so as to bring out his essential Pumblechookery; to say that -is simply to say that he occurs in a work of art. But what they do -really mean is this, and there is an element of truth in it. They mean -that Dickens nowhere makes the reader feel that Pumblechook has any -kind of fundamental human dignity at all. It is nowhere suggested that -Pumblechook will some day die. He is felt rather as one of the idle and -evil fairies, who are innocuous and yet malignant, and who live for -ever because they never really live at all. This dehumanized vitality, -this fantasy, this irresponsibility of creation, does in some sense -truly belong to Dickens. It is the lower side of his hilarious human -variety. But now we come to the higher side of his human variety, and -it is far more difficult to state. - -Mr. George Gissing, from the point of view of the passing -intellectualism of our day, has made (among his many wise tributes -to Dickens) a characteristic complaint about him. He has said that -Dickens, with all his undoubted sympathy for the lower classes, never -made a working man, a poor man, specifically and highly intellectual. -An exception does exist, which he must at least have realized--a wit, -a diplomatist, a great philosopher. I mean, of course, Mr. Weller. -Broadly, however, the accusation has a truth, though it is a truth that -Mr. Gissing did not grasp in its entirety. It is not only true that -Dickens seldom made a poor character what we call intellectual; it is -also true that he seldom made any character what we call intellectual. -Intellectualism was not at all present to his imagination. What was -present to his imagination was character--a thing which is not only -more important than intellect, but is also much more entertaining. When -some English moralists write about the importance of having character, -they appear to mean only the importance of having a dull character. But -character is brighter than wit, and much more complex than sophistry. -The whole superiority of the democracy of Dickens over the democracy -of such a man as Gissing lies exactly in the fact that Gissing would -have liked to prove that poor men could instruct themselves and could -instruct others. It was of final importance to Dickens that poor men -could amuse themselves and could amuse him. He troubled little about -the mere education of that life; he declared two essential things -about it--that it was laughable, and that it was livable. The humble -characters of Dickens do not amuse each other with epigrams; they amuse -each other with themselves. The present that each man brings in hand is -his own incredible personality. In the most sacred sense, and in the -most literal sense of the phrase, he “gives himself away.” Now, the -man who gives himself away does the last act of generosity; he is like -a martyr, a lover, or a monk. But he is also almost certainly what we -commonly call a fool. - -The key of the great characters of Dickens is that they are all great -fools. There is the same difference between a great fool and a small -fool as there is between a great poet and a small poet. The great fool -is a being who is above wisdom rather than below it. That element of -greatness of which I spoke at the beginning of this book is nowhere -more clearly indicated than in such characters. A man can be entirely -great while he is entirely foolish. We see this in the epic heroes, -such as Achilles. Nay, a man can be entirely great because he is -entirely foolish. We see this in all the great comic characters of -all the great comic writers of whom Dickens was the last. Bottom the -Weaver is great because he is foolish; Mr. Toots is great because he is -foolish. The thing I mean can be observed, for instance, in innumerable -actual characters. Which of us has not known, for instance, a great -rustic?--a character so incurably characteristic that he seemed to -break through all canons about cleverness or stupidity; we do not -know whether he is an enormous idiot or an enormous philosopher; we -know only that he is enormous, like a hill. These great, grotesque -characters are almost entirely to be found where Dickens found -them--among the poorer classes. The gentry only attain this greatness -by going slightly mad. But who has not known an unfathomably personal -old nurse? Who has not known an abysmal butler? The truth is that our -public life consists almost exclusively of small men. Our public men -are small because they have to prove that they are in the common-place -interpretation clever, because they have to pass examinations, to -learn codes of manners, to imitate a fixed type. It is in private life -that we find the great characters. They are too great to get into the -public world. It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a -needle than for a great man to enter into the kingdoms of the earth. -The truly great and gorgeous personality, he who talks as no one else -could talk and feels with an elementary fire, you will never find -this man on any cabinet bench, in any literary circle, at any society -dinner. Least of all will you find him in artistic society; he is -utterly unknown in Bohemia. He is more than clever, he is amusing. -He is more than successful, he is alive. You will find him stranded -here and there in all sorts of unknown positions, almost always in -unsuccessful positions. You will find him adrift as an impecunious -commercial traveller like Micawber. You will find him but one of -a batch of silly clerks, like Swiveller. You will find him as an -unsuccessful actor, like Crummles. You will find him as an unsuccessful -doctor, like Sawyer. But you will always find this rich and reeking -personality where Dickens found it--among the poor. For the glory of -this world is a very small and priggish affair, and these men are too -large to get in line with it. They are too strong to conquer. - -It is impossible to do justice to these figures because the essential -of them is their multiplicity. The whole point of Dickens is that he -not only made them, but made them by myriads; that he stamped his -foot, and armies came out of the earth. But let us, for the sake of -showing the true Dickens method, take one of them, a very sublime one, -Toots. It affords a good example of the real work of Dickens, which was -the revealing of a certain grotesque greatness inside an obscure and -even unattractive type. It reveals the great paradox of all spiritual -things; that the inside is always larger than the outside. - -Toots is a type that we all know as well as we know chimney-pots. And -of all conceivable human figures he is apparently the most futile and -the most dull. He is the blockhead who hangs on at a private school, -overgrown and underdeveloped. He is always backward in his lessons, -but forward in certain cheap ways of the world; he can smoke before -he can spell. Toots is a perfect and pungent picture of the wretched -youth. Toots has, as this youth always has, a little money of his own; -enough to waste in a semi-dissipation, he does not enjoy, and in a -gaping regard for sports, in which he could not possibly excel. Toots -has, as this youth always has, bits of surreptitious finery, in his -case the incomparable ring. In Toots, above all, is exactly rendered -the central and most startling contradiction; the contrast between a -jauntiness and a certain impudence of the attire, with the profound -shame and sheepishness of the visage and the character. In him, too, -is expressed the larger contrasts between the external gaiety of such -a lad’s occupations, and the infinite, disconsolate sadness of his -empty eyes. This is Toots; we know him, we pity him, and we avoid him. -Schoolmasters deal with him in despair or in a heartbreaking patience. -His family is vague about him. His low-class hangers-on (like the Game -Chicken) lead him by the nose. The very parasites that live on him -despise him. But Dickens does not despise him. Without denying one -of the dreary details which make us avoid the man, Dickens makes him -a man whom we long to meet. He does not gloss over one of his dismal -deficiencies, but he makes them seem suddenly like violent virtues -that we would go to the world’s end to see. Without altering one fact -he manages to alter the whole atmosphere, the whole universe of Toots. -He makes us not only like, but love; not only love, but reverence -this little dunce and cad. The power to do this is a power truly and -literally to be called divine. - -For this is the very wholesome point. Dickens does not alter Toots in -any vital point. The thing he does alter is us. He makes us lively -where we were bored, kind where we were cruel, and above all, free -for an universal human laughter where we were cramped in a small -competition about that sad and solemn thing, the intellect. His -enthusiasm fills us, as does the love of God, with a glorious shame; -after all, he has only found in Toots what we might have found for -ourselves. He has only made us as much interested in Toots as Toots -is in himself. He does not alter the proportions of Toots; he alters -only the scale; we seem as if we were staring at a rat risen to the -stature of an elephant. Hitherto we have passed him by; now we feel -that nothing could induce us to pass him by; that is the nearest way -of putting the truth. He has not been whitewashed in the least; he has -not been depicted as any cleverer than he is. He has been turned from a -small fool into a great fool. We know Toots is not clever; but we are -not inclined to quarrel with Toots because he is not clever. We are -more likely to quarrel with cleverness because it is not Toots. All the -examinations he could not pass, all the schools he could not enter, all -the temporary tests of brain and culture which surrounded him shall -pass, and Toots shall remain like a mountain. - -It may be noticed that the great artists always choose great fools -rather than great intellectuals to embody humanity. Hamlet does express -the æsthetic dreams and the bewilderments of the intellect; but Bottom -the Weaver expresses them much better. In the same manner Toots -expresses certain permanent dignities in human nature more than any -of Dickens’s more dignified characters can do it. For instance, Toots -expresses admirably the enduring fear, which is the very essence of -falling in love. When Toots is invited by Florence to come in, when he -longs to come in, but still stays out, he is embodying a sort of insane -and perverse humility which is elementary in the lover. - -There is an apostolic injunction to suffer fools gladly. We always lay -the stress on the word suffer, and interpret the passage as one urging -resignation. It might be better, perhaps, to lay the stress upon the -word gladly, and make our familiarity with fools a delight, and almost -a dissipation. Nor is it necessary that our pleasure in fools (or at -least in great and godlike fools) should be merely satiric or cruel. -The great fool is he in whom we cannot tell which is the conscious -and which the unconscious humour; we laugh with him and laugh at him -at the same time. An obvious instance is that of ordinary and happy -marriage. A man and a woman cannot live together without having against -each other a kind of everlasting joke. Each has discovered that the -other is a fool, but a great fool. This largeness, this grossness and -gorgeousness of folly is the thing which we all find about those with -whom we are in intimate contact; and it is the one enduring basis -of affection, and even of respect. When we know an individual named -Tomkins, we know that he has succeeded where all others have failed; -he has succeeded in being Tomkins. Just so Mr. Toots succeeded; he was -defeated in all scholastic examinations, but he was the victor in that -visionary battle in which unknown competitors vainly tried to be Toots. - -If we are to look for lessons, here at least is the last and deepest -lesson of Dickens. It is in our own daily life that we are to look for -the portents and the prodigies. This is the truth, not merely of the -fixed figures of our life; the wife, the husband, the fool that fills -the sky. It is true of the whole stream and substance of our daily -experience; every instant we reject a great fool merely because he -is foolish. Every day we neglect Tootses and Swivellers, Guppys and -Joblings, Simmerys and Flashers. Every day we lose the last sight of -Jobling and Chuckster, the Analytical Chemist, or the Marchioness. -Every day we are missing a monster whom we might easily love, and an -imbecile whom we should certainly admire. This is the real gospel of -Dickens; the inexhaustible opportunities offered by the liberty and -the variety of man. Compared with this life, all public life, all -fame, all wisdom, is by its nature cramped and cold and small. For on -that defined and lighted public stage men are of necessity forced to -profess one set of accomplishments, to rise to one rigid standard. It -is the utterly unknown people, who can grow in all directions like an -exuberant tree. It is in our interior lives that we find that people -are too much themselves. It is in our private life that we find people -intolerably individual, that we find them swelling into the enormous -contours, and taking on the colours of caricature. Many of us live -publicly with featureless public puppets, images of the small public -abstractions. It is when we pass our own private gate, and open our own -secret door, that we step into the land of the giants. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - -ON THE ALLEGED OPTIMISM OF DICKENS - - -In one of the plays of the decadent period, an intellectual expressed -the atmosphere of his epoch by referring to Dickens as “a vulgar -optimist.” I have in a previous chapter suggested something of the real -strangeness of such a term. After all, the main matter of astonishment -(or rather of admiration) is that optimism should be vulgar. In a -world in which physical distress is almost the common lot, we actually -complain that happiness is too common. In a world in which the majority -is physically miserable we actually complain of the sameness of praise; -we are bored with the abundance of approval. When we consider what -the conditions of the vulgar really are, it is difficult to imagine a -stranger or more splendid tribute to humanity than such a phrase as -vulgar optimism. It is as if one spoke of “vulgar martyrdom” or “common -crucifixion.” - -First, however, let it be said frankly that there is a foundation for -the charge against Dickens which is implied in the phrase about vulgar -optimism. It does not concern itself with Dickens’s confidence in the -value of existence and the intrinsic victory of virtue; that is not -optimism but religion. It is not concerned with his habit of making -bright occasions bright, and happy stories happy; that is not optimism, -but literature. Nor is it concerned even with his peculiar genius for -the description of an almost bloated joviality; that is not optimism, -it is simply Dickens. With all these higher variations of optimism I -deal elsewhere. But over and above all these there is a real sense in -which Dickens laid himself open to the accusation of vulgar optimism, -and I desire to put the admission of this first, before the discussion -that follows. Dickens did have a disposition to make his characters -at all costs happy, or, to speak more strictly, he had a disposition -to make them comfortable rather than happy. He had a sort of literary -hospitality; he too often treated his characters as if they were -his guests. From a host is always expected, and always ought to be -expected as long as human civilization is healthy, a strictly physical -benevolence, if you will, a kind of coarse benevolence. Food and fire -and such things should always be the symbols of the man entertaining -men; because they are the things which all men beyond question have in -common. But something more than this is needed from the man who is -imagining and making men, the artist, the man who is not receiving men, -but rather sending them forth. - -As I shall remark in a moment in the matter of the Dickens villains, it -is not true that he made every one thus at home. But he did do it to a -certain wide class of incongruous characters; he did it to all who had -been in any way unfortunate. It had indeed its origin (a very beautiful -origin) in his realization of how much a little pleasure was to such -people. He knew well that the greatest happiness that has been known -since Eden is the happiness of the unhappy. So far he is admirable. And -as long as he was describing the ecstasy of the poor, the borderland -between pain and pleasure, he was at his highest. Nothing that has ever -been written about human delights, no Earthly Paradise, no Utopia has -ever come so near the quick nerve of happiness as his descriptions of -the rare extravagances of the poor; such an admirable description, for -instance, as that of Kit Nubbles taking his family to the theatre. For -he seizes on the real source of the whole pleasure; a holy fear. Kit -tells the waiter to bring the beer. “And the waiter, instead of saying, -‘Did you address that language to me?’ only said, ‘Pot of beer, sir; -yes, sir.’” That internal and quivering humility of Kit is the only way -to enjoy life or banquets; and the fear of the waiter is the beginning -of dining. People in this mood “take their pleasures sadly”; which is -the only way of taking them at all. - -So far Dickens is supremely right. As long as he was dealing with such -penury and such festivity his touch was almost invariably sure. But -when he came to more difficult cases, to people who for one reason or -another could not be cured with one good dinner, he did develop this -other evil, this genuinely vulgar optimism of which I speak. And the -mark of it is this: that he gave the characters a comfort that had no -especial connection with themselves; he threw comfort at them like -alms. There are cases at the end of his stories in which his kindness -to his characters is a careless and insolent kindness. He loses his -real charity and adopts the charity of the Charity Organization -Society; the charity that is not kind, the charity that is puffed up, -and that does behave itself unseemly. At the end of some of his stories -he deals out his characters a kind of out-door relief. - -I will give two instances. The whole meaning of the character of -Mr. Micawber is that a man can be always almost rich by constantly -expecting riches. The lesson is a really important one in our sweeping -modern sociology. We talk of the man whose life is a failure; but -Micawber’s life never is a failure, because it is always a crisis. -We think constantly of the man who if he looked back would see that -his existence was unsuccessful; but Micawber never does look back; -he always looks forward, because the bailiff is coming to-morrow. -You cannot say he is defeated, for his absurd battle never ends; he -cannot despair of life, for he is so much occupied in living. All -this is of immense importance in the understanding of the poor; it is -worth all the slum novelists that ever insulted democracy. But how -did it happen, how could it happen, that the man who created this -Micawber could pension him off at the end of the story and make him a -successful colonial mayor? Micawber never did succeed, never ought to -succeed; his kingdom is not of this world. But this is an excellent -instance of Dickens’s disposition to make his characters grossly and -incongruously comfortable. There is another instance in the same book. -Dora, the first wife of David Copperfield, is a very genuine and -amusing figure; she has certainly far more force of character than -Agnes. She represents the infinite and divine irrationality of the -human heart. What possessed Dickens to make her such a dehumanized prig -as to recommend her husband to marry another woman? One could easily -respect a husband who after time and development made such a marriage, -but surely not a wife who desired it. If Dora had died hating Agnes we -should know that everything was right, and that God would reconcile -the irreconcilable. When Dora dies recommending Agnes we know that -everything is wrong, at least if hypocrisy and artificiality and moral -vulgarity are wrong. There, again, Dickens yields to a mere desire to -give comfort. He wishes to pile up pillows round Dora; and he smothers -her with them, like Othello. - -This is the real vulgar optimism of Dickens; it does exist, and I have -deliberately put it first. Let us admit that Dickens’s mind was far too -much filled with pictures of satisfaction and cosiness and repose. Let -us admit that he thought principally of the pleasures of the oppressed -classes; let us admit that it hardly cost him any artistic pang to make -out human beings as much happier than they are. Let us admit all this, -and a curious fact remains. - -For it was this too easily contented Dickens, this man with cushions -at his back and (it sometimes seems) cotton wool in his ears, it was -this happy dreamer, this vulgar optimist who alone of modern writers -did really destroy some of the wrongs he hated and bring about some -of the reforms he desired. Dickens did help to pull down the debtors’ -prisons; and if he was too much of an optimist he was quite enough -of a destroyer. Dickens did drive Squeers out of his Yorkshire den; -and if Dickens was too contented, it was more than Squeers was. -Dickens did leave his mark on parochialism, on nursing, on funerals, -on public executions, on workhouses, on the Court of Chancery. These -things were altered; they are different. It may be that such reforms -are not adequate remedies; that is another question altogether. The -next sociologists may think these old Radical reforms quite narrow or -accidental. But such as they were, the old radicals got them done; -and the new sociologists cannot get anything done at all. And in the -practical doing of them Dickens played a solid and quite demonstrable -part; that is the plain matter that concerns us here. If Dickens was an -optimist he was an uncommonly active and useful kind of optimist. If -Dickens was a sentimentalist he was a very practical sentimentalist. - -And the reason of this is one that goes deep into Dickens’s social -reform, and like every other real and desirable thing, involves a kind -of mystical contradiction. If we are to save the oppressed, we must -have two apparently antagonistic emotions in us at the same time. We -must think the oppressed man intensely miserable, and, at the same -time, intensely attractive and important. We must insist with violence -upon his degradation; we must insist with the same violence upon his -dignity. For if we relax by one inch the one assertion, men will say he -does not need saving. And if we relax by one inch the other assertion, -men will say he is not worth saving. The optimists will say that reform -is needless. The pessimists will say that reform is hopeless. We must -apply both simultaneously to the same oppressed man; we must say that -he is a worm and a god; and we must thus lay ourselves open to the -accusation (or the compliment) of transcendentalism. This is, indeed, -the strongest argument for the religious conception of life. If the -dignity of man is an earthly dignity we shall be tempted to deny his -earthly degradation. If it is a heavenly dignity we can admit the -earthly degradation with all the candour of Zola. If we are idealists -about the other world we can be realists about this world. But that is -not here the point. What is quite evident is that if a logical praise -of the poor man is pushed too far, and if a logical distress about -him is pushed too far, either will involve wreckage to the central -paradox of reform. If the poor man is made too admirable he ceases to -be pitiable; if the poor man is made too pitiable he becomes merely -contemptible. There is a school of smug optimists who will deny that he -is a poor man. There is a school of scientific pessimists who will deny -that he is a man. - -Out of this perennial contradiction arises the fact that there are -always two types of the reformer. The first we may call for convenience -the pessimistic, the second the optimistic reformer. One dwells upon -the fact that souls are being lost; the other dwells upon the fact -that they are worth saving. Both, of course, are (so far as that is -concerned) quite right, but they naturally tend to a difference of -method, and sometimes to a difference of perception. The pessimistic -reformer points out the good elements that oppression has destroyed; -the optimistic reformer, with an even fiercer joy, points out the -good elements that it has not destroyed. It is the case for the first -reformer that slavery has made men slavish. It is the case for the -second reformer that slavery has not made men slavish. The first -describes how bad men are under bad conditions. The second describes -how good men are under bad conditions. Of the first class of writers, -for instance, is Gorky. Of the second class of writers is Dickens. - -But here we must register a real and somewhat startling fact. In -the face of all apparent probability, it is certainly true that the -optimistic reformer reforms much more completely than the pessimistic -reformer. People produce violent changes by being contented, by being -far too contented. The man who said that revolutions are not made with -rose-water was obviously inexperienced in practical human affairs. Men -like Rousseau and Shelley do make revolutions, and do make them with -rose-water; that is, with a too rosy and sentimental view of human -goodness. Figures that come before and create convulsion and change -(for instance, the central figure of the New Testament) always have the -air of walking in an unnatural sweetness and calm. They give us their -peace ultimately in blood and battle and division; not as the world -giveth give they unto us. - -Nor is the real reason of the triumph of the too-contented reformer -particularly difficult to define. He triumphs because he keeps alive -in the human soul an invincible sense of the thing being worth doing, -of the war being worth winning, of the people being worth their -deliverance. I remember that Mr. William Archer, some time ago, -published in his interesting series of interviews, an interview with -Mr. Thomas Hardy. That powerful writer was represented as saying, in -the course of the conversation, that he did not wish at the particular -moment to define his position with regard to the ultimate problem of -whether life itself was worth living. There are, he said, hundreds of -remediable evils in this world. When we have remedied all these (such -was his argument), it will be time enough to ask whether existence -itself under its best possible conditions is valuable or desirable. -Here we have presented, with a considerable element of what can only -be called unconscious humour, the plain reason of the failure of the -pessimist as a reformer. Mr. Hardy is asking us, I will not say to buy -a pig in a poke; he is asking us to buy a poke on the remote chance of -there being a pig in it. When we have for some few frantic centuries -tortured ourselves to save mankind, it will then be “time enough” -to discuss whether they can possibly be saved. When, in the case of -infant mortality, for example, we have exhausted ourselves with the -earth-shaking efforts required to save the life of every individual -baby, it will then be time enough to consider whether every individual -baby would not have been happier dead. We are to remove mountains -and bring the millennium, because then we can have a quiet moment to -discuss whether the millennium is at all desirable. Here we have the -low-water mark of the impotence of the sad reformer. And here we have -the reason of the paradoxical triumph of the happy one. His triumph -is a religious triumph; it rests upon his perpetual assertion of the -value of the human soul and of human daily life. It rests upon his -assertion that human life is enjoyable because it is human. And he -will never admit, like so many compassionate pessimists, that human -life ever ceases to be human. He does not merely pity the lowness -of men; he feels an insult to their elevation. Brute pity should be -given only to the brutes. Cruelty to animals is cruelty and a vile -thing; but cruelty to a man is not cruelty, it is treason. Tyranny -over a man is not tyranny, it is rebellion, for man is loyal. Now, -the practical weakness of the vast mass of modern pity for the poor -and the oppressed is precisely that it is merely pity; the pity is -pitiful, but not respectful. Men feel that the cruelty to the poor is -a kind of cruelty to animals. They never feel that it is injustice to -equals; nay, it is treachery to comrades. This dark, scientific pity, -this brutal pity, has an elemental sincerity of its own; but it is -entirely useless for all ends of social reform. Democracy swept Europe -with the sabre when it was founded upon the Rights of Man. It has done -literally nothing at all since it has been founded only upon the wrongs -of man. Or, more strictly speaking, its recent failures have been due -to its not admitting the existence of any rights or wrongs, or indeed -of any humanity. Evolution (the sinister enemy of revolution) does -not especially deny the existence of God; what it does deny is the -existence of man. And all the despair about the poor, and the cold and -repugnant pity for them, has been largely due to the vague sense that -they have literally relapsed into the state of the lower animals. - -A writer sufficiently typical of recent revolutionism--Gorky--has -called one of his books by the eerie and effective title “Creatures -that Once were Men.” That title explains the whole failure of the -Russian revolution. And the reason why the English writers, such as -Dickens, did with all their limitations achieve so many of the actual -things at which they aimed, was that they could not possibly have put -such a title upon a human book. Dickens really helped the unfortunate -in the matters to which he set himself. And the reason is that across -all his books and sketches about the unfortunate might be written the -common title, “Creatures that Still are Men.” - -There does exist, then, this strange optimistic reformer; the man whose -work begins with approval and yet ends with earthquake. Jesus Christ -was destined to found a faith which made the rich poorer and the poor -richer; but even when He was going to enrich them, He began with the -phrase, “Blessed are the poor.” The Gissings and the Gorkys say, as -an universal literary motto, “Cursed are the poor.” Among a million -who have faintly followed Christ in this divine contradiction, Dickens -stands out especially. He said, in all his reforming utterances, “Cure -poverty”; but he said in all his actual descriptions, “Blessed are the -poor.” He described their happiness, and men rushed to remove their -sorrow. He described them as human, and men resented the insults to -their humanity. It is not difficult to see why, as I said at an earlier -stage of this book, Dickens’s denunciations have had so much more -practical an effect than the denunciations of such a man as Gissing. -Both agreed that the souls of the people were in a kind of prison. -But Gissing said that the prison was full of dead souls. Dickens said -that the prison was full of living souls. And the fiery cavalcade of -rescuers felt that they had not come too late. - -Of this general fact about Dickens’s descriptions of poverty there -will not, I suppose, be any serious dispute. The dispute will only -be about the truth of those descriptions. It is clear that whereas -Gissing would say, “See how their poverty depresses the Smiths or the -Browns,” Dickens says, “See how little, after all, their poverty can -depress the Cratchits.” No one will deny that he made a special feature -a special study of the subject of the festivity of the poor. We will -come to the discussion of the veracity of these scenes in a moment. It -is here sufficient to register in conclusion of our examination of the -reforming optimist, that Dickens certainly was such an optimist, and -that he made it his business to insist upon what happiness there is in -the lives of the unhappy. His poor man is always a Mark Tapley, a man -the optimism of whose spirit increases if anything with the pessimism -of his experience. It can also be registered as a fact equally solid -and quite equally demonstrable that this optimistic Dickens did effect -great reforms. - -The reforms in which Dickens was instrumental were, indeed, from the -point of view of our sweeping, social panaceas, special and limited. -But perhaps, for that reason especially, they afford a compact -and concrete instance of the psychological paradox of which we -speak. Dickens did definitely destroy--or at the very least help to -destroy--certain institutions; he destroyed those institutions simply -by describing them. But the crux and peculiarity of the whole matter -is this, that, in a sense, it can really be said that he described -these things too optimistically. In a real sense, he described -Dotheboys Hall as a better place than it is. In a real sense, he made -out the workhouse as a pleasanter place than it can ever be. For the -chief glory of Dickens is that he made these places interesting; and -the chief infamy of England is that it has made these places dull. -Dulness was the one thing that Dickens’s genius could never succeed in -describing; his vitality was so violent that he could not introduce -into his books the genuine impression even of a moment of monotony. -If there is anywhere in his novels an instant of silence, we only -hear more clearly the hero whispering with the heroine, the villain -sharpening his dagger, or the creaking of the machinery that is to -give out the god from the machine. He could splendidly describe gloomy -places, but he could not describe dreary places. He could describe -miserable marriages, but not monotonous marriages. It must have been -genuinely entertaining to be married to Mr. Quilp. This sense of a -still incessant excitement he spreads over every inch of his story, and -over every dark tract of his landscape. His idea of a desolate place -is a place where anything can happen; he has no idea of that desolate -place where nothing can happen. This is a good thing for his soul, -for the place where nothing can happen is hell. But still, it might -reasonably be maintained by the modern mind that he is hampered in -describing human evil and sorrow by this inability to imagine tedium, -this dulness in the matter of dulness. For, after all, it is certainly -true that the worst part of the lot of the unfortunate is the fact -that they have long spaces in which to review the irrevocability of -their doom. It is certainly true that the worst days of the oppressed -man are the nine days out of ten in which he is not oppressed. This -sense of sickness, and sameness Dickens did certainly fail or refuse -to give. When we read such a description as that excellent one--in -detail--of Dotheboys Hall, we feel that, while everything else is -accurate, the author does, in the words of the excellent Captain Nares -in Stevenson’s “Wrecker,” “draw the dreariness rather mild.” The boys -at Dotheboys were, perhaps, less bullied, but they were certainly -more bored. For, indeed, how could any one be bored with the society -of so sumptuous a creature as Mr. Squeers? Who would not put up with -a few illogical floggings in order to enjoy the conversation of a man -who could say, “She’s a rum ’un, is Natur’.... Natur’ is more easier -conceived than described”? The same principle applies to the workhouse -in “Oliver Twist.” We feel vaguely that neither Oliver nor any one else -could be entirely unhappy in the presence of the purple personality -of Mr. Bumble. The one thing he did not describe in any of the abuses -he denounced was the soul-destroying potency of routine. He made out -the bad school, the bad parochial system, the bad debtors’ prison as -very much jollier and more exciting than they may really have been. -In a sense, then, he flattered them; but he destroyed them with the -flattery. By making Mrs. Gamp delightful he made her impossible. He -gave every one an interest in Mr. Bumble’s existence; and by the -same act gave every one an interest in his destruction. It would be -difficult to find a stronger instance of the utility and energy of the -method which we have, for the sake of argument, called the method of -the optimistic reformer. As long as low Yorkshire schools were entirely -colourless and dreary, they continued quietly tolerated by the public, -and quietly intolerable to the victims. So long as Squeers was dull as -well as cruel he was permitted; the moment he became amusing as well -as cruel he was destroyed. As long as Bumble was merely inhuman he was -allowed. When he became human, humanity wiped him out. For in order -to do these great acts of justice we must always realize not only the -humanity of the oppressed, but even the humanity of the oppressor. The -satirist had, in a sense, to create the images in the mind before, as -an iconoclast, he could destroy them. Dickens had to make Squeers live -before he could make him die. - -In connection with the accusation of vulgar optimism, which I have -taken as a text for this chapter, there is another somewhat odd thing -to notice. Nobody in the world was ever less optimistic than Dickens in -his treatment of evil or the evil man. When I say optimistic in this -matter I mean optimism, in the modern sense, of an attempt to whitewash -evil. Nobody ever made less attempt to whitewash evil than Dickens. -Nobody black was ever less white than Dickens’s black. He painted -his villains and lost characters more black than they really are. He -crowds his stories with a kind of villain rare in modern fiction--the -villain really without any “redeeming point.” There is no redeeming -point in Squeers, or in Monck, or in Ralph Nickleby, or in Bill Sikes, -or in Quilp, or in Brass, or in Mr. Chester, or in Mr. Pecksniff, or -in Jonas Chuzzlewit, or in Carker, or in Uriah Heep, or in Blandois, -or in a hundred more. So far as the balance of good and evil in human -characters is concerned, Dickens certainly could not be called a vulgar -optimist. His emphasis on evil was melodramatic. He might be called a -vulgar pessimist. - -Some will dismiss this lurid villainy as a detail of his artificial -romance. I am not inclined to do so. He inherited, undoubtedly, -this unqualified villain as he inherited so many other things, from -the whole history of European literature. But he breathed into the -blackguard a peculiar and vigorous life of his own. He did not show -any tendency to modify his blackguardism in accordance with the -increasing considerateness of the age; he did not seem to wish to make -his villain less villainous; he did not wish to imitate the analysis -of George Eliot, or the reverent scepticism of Thackeray. And all this -works back, I think, to a real thing in him, that he wished to have -an obstreperous and incalculable enemy. He wished to keep alive the -idea of combat, which means, of necessity, a combat against something -individual and alive. I do not know whether, in the kindly rationalism -of his epoch, he kept any belief in a personal devil in his theology, -but he certainly created a personal devil in every one of his books. - -A good example of my meaning can be found, for instance, in such a -character as Quilp. Dickens may, for all I know, have had originally -some idea of describing Quilp as the bitter and unhappy cripple, a -deformity whose mind is stunted along with his body. But if he had -such an idea, he soon abandoned it. Quilp is not in the least unhappy. -His whole picturesqueness consists in the fact that he has a kind of -hellish happiness, an atrocious hilarity that makes him go bounding -about like an indiarubber ball. Quilp is not in the least bitter; he -has an unaffected gaiety, an expansiveness, an universality. He desires -to hurt people in the same hearty way that a good-natured man desires -to help them. He likes to poison people with the same kind of clamorous -camaraderie with which an honest man likes to stand them drink. Quilp -is not in the least stunted in mind; he is not in reality even stunted -in body--his body, that is, does not in any way fall short of what he -wants it to do. His smallness gives him rather the promptitude of a -bird or the precipitance of a bullet. In a word, Quilp is precisely the -devil of the Middle Ages; he belongs to that amazingly healthy period -when even the lost spirits were hilarious. - -This heartiness and vivacity in the villains of Dickens is worthy of -note because it is directly connected with his own cheerfulness. This -is a truth little understood in our time, but it is a very essential -one. If optimism means a general approval, it is certainly true that -the more a man becomes an optimist the more he becomes a melancholy -man. If he manages to praise everything, his praise will develop an -alarming resemblance to a polite boredom. He will say that the marsh -is as good as the garden; he will mean that the garden is as dull as -the marsh. He may force himself to say that emptiness is good, but he -will hardly prevent himself from asking what is the good of such good. -This optimism does exist--this optimism which is more hopeless than -pessimism--this optimism which is the very heart of hell. Against such -an aching vacuum of joyless approval there is only one antidote--a -sudden and pugnacious belief in positive evil. This world can be made -beautiful again by beholding it as a battlefield. When we have defined -and isolated the evil thing, the colours come back into everything -else. When evil things have become evil, good things, in a blazing -apocalypse, become good. There are some men who are dreary because they -do not believe in God; but there are many others who are dreary because -they do not believe in the devil. The grass grows green again when we -believe in the devil, the roses grow red again when we believe in the -devil. - -No man was more filled with the sense of this bellicose basis of all -cheerfulness than Dickens. He knew very well the essential truth, -that the true optimist can only continue an optimist so long as he -is discontented. For the full value of this life can only be got -by fighting; the violent take it by storm. And if we have accepted -everything, we have missed something--war. This life of ours is a very -enjoyable fight, but a very miserable truce. And it appears strange -to me that so few critics of Dickens or of other romantic writers -have noticed this philosophical meaning in the undiluted villain. The -villain is not in the story to be a character; he is there to be a -danger--a ceaseless, ruthless, and uncompromising menace, like that -of wild beasts or the sea. For the full satisfaction of the sense of -combat, which everywhere and always involves a sense of equality, it is -necessary to make the evil thing a man; but it is not always necessary, -it is not even always artistic, to make him a mixed and probable -man. In any tale, the tone of which is at all symbolic, he may quite -legitimately be made an aboriginal and infernal energy. He must be a -man only in the sense that he must have a wit and will to be matched -with the wit and will of the man chiefly fighting. The evil may be -inhuman, but it must not be impersonal, which is almost exactly the -position occupied by Satan in the theological scheme. - -But when all is said, as I have remarked before, the chief fountain -in Dickens of what I have called cheerfulness, and some prefer to -call optimism, is something deeper than a verbal philosophy. It is, -after all, an incomparable hunger and pleasure for the vitality and -the variety, for the infinite eccentricity of existence. And this word -“eccentricity” brings us, perhaps, nearer to the matter than any other. -It is, perhaps, the strongest mark of the divinity of man that he talks -of this world as “a strange world,” though he has seen no other. We -feel that all there is is eccentric, though we do not know what is the -centre. This sentiment of the grotesqueness of the universe ran through -Dickens’s brain and body like the mad blood of the elves. He saw all -his streets in fantastic perspectives, he saw all his cockney villas -as top heavy and wild, he saw every man’s nose twice as big as it -was, and every man’s eyes like saucers. And this was the basis of his -gaiety--the only real basis of any philosophical gaiety. This world is -not to be justified as it is justified by the mechanical optimists; it -is not to be justified as the best of all possible worlds. Its merit is -not that it is orderly and explicable; its merit is that it is wild and -utterly unexplained. Its merit is precisely that none of us could have -conceived such a thing, that we should have rejected the bare idea of -it as miracle and unreason. It is the best of all impossible worlds. - - - - -CHAPTER XII - -A NOTE ON THE FUTURE OF DICKENS - - -The hardest thing to remember about our own time, of course, is simply -that it is a time; we all instinctively think of it as the Day of -Judgment. But all the things in it which belong to it merely as this -time will probably be rapidly turned upside down; all the things that -can pass will pass. It is not merely true that all old things are -already dead; it is also true that all new things are already dead; for -the only undying things are the things that are neither new nor old. -The more you are up with this year’s fashion, the more (in a sense) -you are already behind next year’s. Consequently, in attempting to -decide whether an author will, as it is cantly expressed, live, it is -necessary to have very firm convictions about what part, if any part, -of man is unchangeable. And it is very hard to have this if you have -not a religion; or, at least, a dogmatic philosophy. - -The equality of men needs preaching quite as much as regards the ages -as regards the classes of men. To feel infinitely superior to a man in -the twelfth century is just precisely as snobbish as to feel infinitely -superior to a man in the Old Kent Road. There are differences between -the man and us, there may be superiorities in us over the man; but our -sin in both cases consists in thinking of the small things wherein -we differ when we ought to be confounded and intoxicated by the -terrible and joyful matters in which we are at one. But here again the -difficulty always is that the things near us seem larger than they -are, and so seem to be a permanent part of mankind, when they may -really be only one of its parting modes of expression. Few people, for -instance, realize that a time may easily come when we shall see the -great outburst of Science in the nineteenth century as something quite -as splendid, brief, unique, and ultimately abandoned, as the outburst -of Art at the Renascence. Few people realize that the general habit of -fiction, of telling tales in prose, may fade, like the general habit -of the ballad, of telling tales in verse, has for the time faded. Few -people realize that reading and writing are only arbitrary, and perhaps -temporary sciences, like heraldry. - -The immortal mind will remain, and by that writers like Dickens will -be securely judged. That Dickens will have a high place in permanent -literature there is, I imagine, no prig surviving to deny. But -though all prediction is in the dark, I would devote this chapter -to suggesting that his place in nineteenth century England will not -only be high, but altogether the highest. At a certain period of -his contemporary fame, an average Englishman would have said that -there were at that moment in England about five or six able and -equal novelists. He could have made a list, Dickens, Bulwer-Lytton, -Thackeray, Charlotte Brontë, George Eliot, perhaps more. Forty years -or more have passed and some of them have slipped to a lower place. -Some would now say that the highest platform is left to Thackeray and -Dickens; some to Dickens, Thackeray, and George Eliot; some to Dickens, -Thackeray, and Charlotte Brontë. I venture to offer the proposition -that when more years have passed and more weeding has been effected, -Dickens will dominate the whole England of the nineteenth century; he -will be left on that platform alone. - -I know that this is an almost impertinent thing to assert, and that its -tendency is to bring in those disparaging discussions of other writers -in which Mr. Swinburne brilliantly embroiled himself in his suggestive -study of Dickens. But my disparagement of the other English novelists -is wholly relative and not in the least positive. It is certain that -men will always return to such a writer as Thackeray, with his rich -emotional autumn, his feeling that life is a sad but sacred retrospect, -in which at least we should forget nothing. It is not likely that wise -men will forget him. So, for instance, wise and scholarly men do from -time to time return to the lyrists of the French Renascence, to the -delicate poignancy of Du Bellay: so they will go back to Thackeray. But -I mean that Dickens will bestride and dominate our time as the vast -figure of Rabelais dominates Du Bellay, dominates the Renascence and -the world. - -Yet we put a negative reason first. The particular things for which -Dickens is condemned (and justly condemned) by his critics, are -precisely those things which have never prevented a man from being -immortal. The chief of them is the unquestionable fact that he wrote an -enormous amount of bad work. This does lead to a man being put below -his place in his own time: it does not affect his permanent place, -to all appearance, at all. Shakespeare, for instance, and Wordsworth -wrote not only an enormous amount of bad work, but an enormous amount -of enormously bad work. Humanity edits such writers’ works for them. -Virgil was mistaken in cutting out his inferior lines; we would -have undertaken the job. Moreover in the particular case of Dickens -there are special reasons for regarding his bad work as in some sense -irrelevant. So much of it was written, as I have previously suggested, -under a kind of general ambition that had nothing to do with his -special genius; an ambition to be a public provider of everything, -a warehouse of all human emotions. He held a kind of literary day -of judgment. He distributed bad characters as punishments and good -characters as rewards. My meaning can be best conveyed by one instance -out of many. The character of the kind old Jew in “Our Mutual Friend” -(a needless and unconvincing character) was actually introduced because -some Jewish correspondent complains that the bad old Jew in “Oliver -Twist” conveyed the suggestion that all Jews were bad. The principle -is so lightheadedly absurd that it is hard to imagine any literary man -submitting to it for an instant. If ever he invented a bad auctioneer -he must immediately balance him with a good auctioneer; if he should -have conceived an unkind philanthropist, he must on the spot, with -whatever natural agony and toil, imagine a kind philanthropist. The -complaint is frantic; yet Dickens, who tore people in pieces for much -fairer complaints, liked this complaint of his Jewish correspondent. -It pleased him to be mistaken for a public arbiter: it pleased him -to be asked (in a double sense) to judge Israel. All this is so -much another thing, a non-literary vanity, that there is much less -difficulty than usual in separating it from his serious genius: and -by his serious genius, I need hardly say, I mean his comic genius. -Such irrelevant ambitions as this are easily passed over, like the -sonnets of great statesmen. We feel that such things can be set aside, -as the ignorant experiments of men otherwise great, like the politics -of Professor Tyndall or the philosophy of Professor Haeckel. Hence, I -think, posterity will not care that Dickens has done bad work, but will -know that he has done good. - -Again, the other chief accusation against Dickens was that his -characters and their actions were exaggerated and impossible. But this -only meant that they were exaggerated and impossible as compared with -the modern world and with certain writers (like Thackeray or Trollope) -who were making a very exact copy of the manners of the modern world. -Some people, oddly enough have suggested that Dickens has suffered or -will suffer from the change of manners. Surely this is irrational. It -is not the creators of the impossible who will suffer from the process -of time: Mr. Bunsby can never be any more impossible than he was when -Dickens made him. The writers who will obviously suffer from time will -be the careful and realistic writers; the writers who have observed -every detail of the fashion of this world which passeth away. It is -surely obvious that there is nothing so fragile as a fact, that a fact -flies away quicker than a fancy. A fancy will endure for two thousand -years. For instance, we all have fancy for an entirely fearless man, a -hero: and the Achilles of Homer still remains. But exactly the thing we -do not know about Achilles is how far he was possible. The realistic -narrators of the time are all forgotten (thank God); so we cannot -tell whether Homer slightly exaggerated or wildly exaggerated or did -not exaggerate at all, the personal activity of a Mycenæan captain in -battle: for the fancy has survived the facts. So the fancy of Podsnap -may survive the facts of English commerce: and no one will know whether -Podsnap was possible, but only know that he is desirable, like Achilles. - -The positive argument for the permanence of Dickens comes back to -the thing that can only be stated and cannot be discussed: creation. -He made things which nobody else could possibly make. He made Dick -Swiveller in a very different sense to that in which Thackeray made -Colonel Newcome. Thackeray’s creation was observation: Dickens’s was -poetry, and is therefore permanent. But there is one other test that -can be added. The immortal writer, I conceive, is commonly he who does -something universal in a special manner. I mean that he does something -interesting to all men in a way in which only one man or one land can -do. Other men in that land, who do only what other men in other lands -are doing as well, tend to have a great reputation in their day and to -sink slowly into a second or a third or a fourth place. A parallel from -war will make the point clearer. I cannot think that any one will doubt -that, although Wellington and Nelson were always bracketed, Nelson -will steadily become more important and Wellington less. For the fame -of Wellington rests upon the fact that he was a good soldier in the -service of England, exactly as twenty similar men were good soldiers -in the service of Austria or Prussia or France. But Nelson is the -symbol of a special mode of attack, which is at once universal and yet -specially English, the sea. Now Dickens is at once as universal as the -sea and as English as Nelson. Thackeray and George Eliot and the other -great figures of that great England, were comparable to Wellington -in this, that the kind of thing they were doing,--realism, the acute -study of intellectual things, numerous men in France, Germany, and -Italy were doing as well or better than they. But Dickens was really -doing something universal, yet something that no one but an Englishman -could do. This is attested by the fact that he and Byron are the men -who, like pinnacles, strike the eye of the continent. The points would -take long to study: yet they may take only a moment to indicate. No one -but an Englishman could have filled his books at once with a furious -caricature and with a positively furious kindness. In more central -countries, full of cruel memories of political change, caricature is -always inhumane. No one but an Englishman could have described the -democracy as consisting of free men, but yet of funny men. In other -countries where the democratic issue has been more bitterly fought, it -is felt that unless you describe a man as dignified you are describing -him as a slave. This is the only final greatness of a man; that he does -for all the world what all the world cannot do for itself. Dickens, I -believe, did it. - -The hour of absinthe is over. We shall not be much further troubled -with the little artists who found Dickens too sane for their sorrows -and too clean for their delights. But we have a long way to travel -before we get back to what Dickens meant: and the passage is along a -rambling English road, a twisting road such as Mr. Pickwick travelled. -But this at least is part of what he meant; that comradeship and -serious joy are not interludes in our travel; but that rather our -travels are interludes in comradeship and joy, which through God shall -endure for ever. The inn does not point to the road; the road points to -the inn. And all roads point at last to an ultimate inn, where we shall -meet Dickens and all his characters: and when we drink again it shall -be from the great flagons in the tavern at the end of the world. - - -THE END - - - - -Transcriber’s Notes - - -Simple typographical errors were corrected. - -Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a -predominant preference was found in the original book; otherwise they -were not changed. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHARLES DICKENS *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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