|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 7
From the old giants of English fun--burly persons delighting in broad
caricature, in decided colours, in cockney jokes, in swashing blows at the
more prominent and obvious human follies--from these you derived the splendid
high spirits and unhesitating mirth of your earlier works. Mr. Squeers, and
Sam Weller, and Mrs. Gamp, and all the Pickwickians, and Mr. Dowler, and John
Browdie--these and their immortal companions were reared, so to speak, on the
beef and beer of that naughty, fox-hunting, badger-baiting old England, which
we have improved out of existence. And these characters, assuredly, are your
best; by them, though stupid people cannot read about them, you will live
while there is a laugh left among us. Perhaps that does not assure you a very
prolonged existence, but only the future can show.
The dismal seriousness of the time cannot, let us hope, last for ever and a
day. Honest old Laughter, the true _lutin_ of your inspiration, must have life
left in him yet, and cannot die; though it is true that the taste for your
pathos, and your melodrama, and plots constructed after your favourite fashion
('Great Expectations' and the 'Tale of Two Cities' are exceptions) may go by
and never be regretted. Were people simpler, or only less clear-sighted, as
far as your pathos is concerned, a generation ago? Jeffrey, the hard-headed
shallow critic, who declared that Wordsworth 'would never do,' cried, 'wept
like anything,' over your Little Nell. One still laughs as heartily as ever
with Dick Swiveller; but who can cry over Little Nell?
Ah, Sir, how could you--who knew so intimately, who remembered so strangely
well the fancies, the dreams, the sufferings of childhood--how could you
'wallow naked in the pathetic,' and massacre holocausts of the Innocents? To
draw tears by gloating over a child's death-bed, was it worthy of you? Was it
the kind of work over which our hearts should melt? I confess that Little Nell
might die a dozen times, and be welcomed by whole legions of Angels, and I
(like the bereaved fowl mentioned by Pet Marjory) would remain unmoved.
She was more than usual calm,
She did not give a single dam,
wrote the astonishing child who diverted the leisure of Scott. Over your
Little Nell and your Little Dombey I remain more than usual calm; and probably
so do thousands of your most sincere admirers. But about matter of this kind,
and the unsealing of the fountains of tears, who can argue? Where is taste?
where is truth? What tears are 'manly, Sir, manly,' as Fred Bayham has it; and
of what lamentations ought we rather to be ashamed? _Sunt lacrymae rerum_; one
has been moved in the cell where Socrates tasted the hemlock; or by the
river-banks where Syracusan arrows slew the parched Athenians among the mire
and blood; or, in fiction, when Colonel Newcome said _Adsum_, or over the
diary of Clare Doria Forey, or where Aramis laments, with strange tears, the
death of Porthos. But over Dombey (the Son), or Little Nell, one declines to
snivel.
When an author deliberately sits down and says, 'Now, let us have a good cry,'
he poisons the wells of sensibility and chokes, at least in many breasts, the
fountain of tears. Out of 'Dombey and Son' there is little we care to
remember except the deathless Mr. Toots; just as we forget the melodramatics
of 'Martin Chuzzlewit.' I have read in that book a score of times; I never see
it but I revel in it--in Pecksniff, and Mrs. Gamp, and the Americans. But what
the plot is all about, what Jonas did, what Montagu Tigg had to make in the
matter, what all the pictures with plenty of shading illustrate, I have never
been able to comprehend. In the same way, one of your most thorough-going
admirers has allowed (in the licence of private conversation) that 'Ralph
Nickleby and Monk are too steep;' and probably a cultivated taste will always
find them a little precipitous.
'Too steep:'--the slang expresses that defect of an ardent genius, carried
above itself, and out of the air we breathe, both in its grotesque and in its
gloomy imaginations. To force the note, to press fantasy too hard, to deepen
the gloom with black over the indigo, that was the failing which proved you
mortal. To take an instance in little: when Pip went to Mr. Pumblechook's, the
boy thought the seedsman 'a very happy man to have so many little drawers in
his shop.' The reflection is thoroughly boyish; but then you add, 'I wondered
whether the flower-seeds and bulbs ever wanted of a fine day to break out of
those jails and bloom.' That is not boyish at all; that is the hard-driven,
jaded literary fancy at work.
'So we arraign her; but she,' the Genius of Charles Dickens, how brilliant,
how kindly, how beneficent she is! dwelling by a fountain of laughter
imperishable; though there is something of an alien salt in the neighbouring
fountain of tears. How poor the world of fancy would be, how 'dispeopled of
her dreams,' if, in some ruin of the social system, the books of Dickens were
lost; and if The Dodger, and Charley Bates, and Mr. Crinkle, and Miss Squeers,
and Sam Weller, and Mrs. Gamp, and Dick Swiveller were to perish, or to vanish
with Menander's men and women! We cannot think of our world without them; and,
children of dreams as they are, they seem more essential than great statesmen,
artists, soldiers, who have actually worn flesh and blood, ribbons and orders,
gowns and uniforms. May we not almost welcome 'Free Education'? for every
Englishman who can read, unless he be an Ass, is a reader the more for you.
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|