aimat effect, have no reality. They not only do not go beyond impressions, but they destroy the very virtue which belongs to their natural use. They bring them out as sensible objects, upon which the mind is consciously to fix. They often attain their end, it must be owned: they raise a storm, but not that they may clear away the heavy clouds oud Tv Tar maenuatwv wd0apov, and reveal brighter skies behind, but that they may impress certain minds with a sensation of relief from the monotony of a white and blue heaven. And if readers " will make believe very much,” as the Marchioness did with her orange peel negus, why the effect may be strong. But the excitement they give is no more the buoyant delight, which follows strong exertion, than the blue and green lights, which Mr. Farraday produces in his close, stifling lecture room, are like the blue sky or the colours in the rainbow. It is simply "excitement without elevation." Witness the boast of the most warm admirers of Dickens and " a late Physician,” (and in this view we may include Bulwer and Lord Byron.) Is it not that they write from the heart?" Alas for the prostitution of words! It is another make-believe: they write as if from the heart; they force themselves into high-strained emotions, and produce on themselves by long gazing on their pictures, the very effect which they wish to produce an others. So may actors verily weep and faint, and that in the same piece, and not for one night only—what do these writers more than this? But allowing that in a certain sense they do write from the heart, what does this but approve the position taken, viz. that they cannot be indifferent? Whether created by the true emotion or by the counterfeit, the effect is the same; which effect is so strong, as to make it a serious question, how far they should be read in the present idle fashion. Whoever deals with young and sensitive minds should be reverent in the sight of so great a mystery; he should touch with a delicate finger that "fearful and wonderful" creation. The precious seed-vessel must open as it will, evolving its treasures one by one; to tear it open is to destroy that, which, left to its own soft skies and suns to perfect, is indestructible. We treat such things lightly; but in these schools it is that young minds may receive a taint, before they know that a breath has passed over them. There is less danger, because less temptation in the schools of worldly wisdom, "Where knowledge ill begun in cold remark On outward things, with formal inference ends." III. But a third question arises, and one which this paper can only induce the reader to answer for himself. How far is the exhibition of grossness and violence profitable? Does it practically attain its end in creating an active abhorrence of evil? If not, is it not trifling with dreadful subjects? The common objection to such a doubt, is the vaunted excellence of a knowledge of the world, as it is called; and how can such a knowledge be gained without the aid of such vivid pictures as Mr. Dickens and Mr. Warren* afford? Ignorance, it is urged, is not innocence, and the like. Before an answer is sought for to this objection, let it be considered by whom it is urged. Are they not often those very persons who can least afford to touch pitch? Men, who palpably do not shrink from, or feel uncomfortable at the prospect? But if it does come sometimes from higher authority, it seems to be a sufficiently practical answer to say, that meeting with grossness and pollution in the world is another thing *The Diary of a late Physician. from seeking it. In the latter case we are presuming on our own stedfastness, and venturing to throw ourselves at least into scenes from which we have as yet been preserved by a power greater than ourselves. But at any rate the objection makes for the truth of our assertion, viz. that something more than entertainment is the end of these writings. Thus then besides the first question, whether such scenes should be exhibited in detail at all, we must consider the manner in which it is done. An attempt to distinguish between the main features of Mr. Dickens' scenes, and those of a like nature, as Shakspere's for instance, or Sir Walter Scott's, would here necessarily be very imperfect; but there are some few points which strike the reader at first view. It has been observed* that the grossness of Falstaff is carried off by the activity of his intellect. His humour prevents us from dwelling on his obscenity and dishonesty; "while men of all sorts take a pride to gird at me, I am not only witty in myself, but the cause that wit is in other men." Though our impression of him is that of a wicked man, yet we are never excited. Shakspere is always above his subject, however great it be. He paints men just as they are found in life, not divided by broad contrasts, and exaggerated lines of character, but just by those natural distinctions, which though they make individuals, do not exclude sympathy and association. We see the link between Hal and the "reverend vice," and even between them and Bardolph and Pistol. But who should confuse them? Besides, when we can trace it, we see a silver thread running through the whole story. For all that ordinary readers know, the evenings at the Boar's Head, *C. Knight's Pictorial Shakspere. S the "last year's pippins, and the dish of carraways," in Justice Shallow's orchard, may be as essential to the perfect piece as the speeches of Hotspur and Glendower. But to be able to discover this, we must rise with the writer above his subject. Without it we can only guess at the course of the story. The undulating stream catches only here and there the light, and though its own course be one and unbroken, it cannot be seen continuously but by those who can overlook all the dips and risings between which it flows. But still there may be more in this matter than is generally considered. Some of our readers may feel that they cannot dismiss it thus hastily in a temper of blind reverence for Shakspere, It would be a great thing to justify these scenes, (if possible,) on their own merit, not to leave that to the feelings of each individual reader. However, in default of this, the motto at the head of this paper must suffice for the occasion. Few candid readers will deny that Mr. Dickens' scenes leave different impressions from those of Shakspere and Sir Walter Scott. In the former, there is grossness and violence, vice made pitiable by its sufferings, good humour and ridicule, kind nature, and a few bright rays from a better world. The only persons introduced of a better caste have not a sufficiently positive character to relieve or elevate the reader from the heavy and melancholy sights around him. We have heard it remarked that Mr. Dickens has not drawn one woman worthy of the name, unless poor Nell be excepted. Wretchedness is represented in the mass, in broad shade and little light; which exaggeration is so great as to be unnatural, and therefore has only present effect. It is no answer to this to say, that the author writes from facts, and has chapter and verse for what he says. A literal copy may be, in com position, an exaggeration. There is an art controlling and elevating nature; and in this art Mr. Dickens fails. The reader desires a relief whether in prose or in poetry. Mr. Wordsworth says that in the latter, the metre itself is a diversion; it prevents the occurrence of pain without pleasure. Metre* and rhythm, while they are a veil of reserve thrown over the violent emotions of the writer, and the conductor of thoughts, the very strength and rapidity of which would make their utterance otherwise confused, have a similar effect on the reader. And in prose there are substitutes for metre. The very mechanism and rules by which the story is conducted, the scenery, the versatility of the writer in pourtraying character, the pauses and checks, which are given by the changes of scene, when skilfully managed, hold the reader back from the catastrophe. Besides the humour of Caleb Balderstone, (which has at least a tone of higher education than Sam Weller's,) the mystery thrown over the whole story by "Auld Alice," at the beginning, is a relief from the otherwise oppressive sense of pain at the end. Even the little scenes with Lucy and her favourite brother, give a sweet melancholy to her character. And who thinks of Romeo and Juliet, but as a tale sweet beyond expression? Pain is not the feeling uppermost. Their tomb is beautiful, and "A thing of beauty is a joy for ever; Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing." Now the only relief, we have observed, which Mr. * See an article in the British Critic of 1838 or 1839 on the life of Sir W. Scott. |