the former described as of great personal attractions, but in spirit resembling Edith Grainger, Rosa Dartle, and other indomitably evil-disposed young women, whom, if they really exist, we, thank heaven, have never met with. Some of the characters, having some peculiar feature ascribed to them, by dint of constant repetition, have their personality altogether absorbed in that feature. Thus Mrs Merdle, having a remarkable bust, is always alluded to as "the Bosom." Rigaud the murderer, having a peculiar way of fiendishly smiling, is so constantly making "his mustache go up under his nose, and his nose come down over his mustache," that these parts of his face throw all the rest of his figure and countenance into the background, and he becomes part of a huge diabolical mask. Mr Pancks, as we have said, is invariably the Tug," having a habit of snorting, which it was perhaps not incumbent on a biographer to chronicle. Thus we are told" from the inner dock, where the good ship Pancks was hove down when out in no cruising-ground, the noise was heard of that steamer labouring towards them. It struck Arthur that the noise began demonstratively far off, as though Mr Pancks sought to impress on any one who might happen to think about it, that he was working on from out of hearing." Such is the sustained metaphorical flight, founded at length on this gentleman's nasal peculiarity. Mr Casby, being of venerable aspect, is "the Patriarch." We presume we have now said enough to show that this is not a great work of character. Indeed, in the absence of incident, it is difficult to see how character can display itself. Hence arises another prime fault. In a great novel the incidents and characters work together for good, characters producing incident, incident calling forth traits of character, till in the very highest specimens the principal personages are scarcely fully developed before the end of the book. But here a character is minutely described on its first appearance, and henceforward it is a mere repetition, never developing or evolving itself in the least; and whole pages are taken up with the talk about nothing, of people who, if they talked about something, would not be worth listening to. There is a stupid and disagreeable old woman called Mrs General (we never knew anybody of the name, but we are not surprised any more than if the author had thought proper to christen her Mrs Serjeantmajor, or Mrs Fieldmarshal, or Mrs Commanderinchief), who acts as a sort of companion and Mentor to the Misses Dorrit, and who is thus introduced: "Mrs General was the daughter of a clerical dignitary in a cathedral town, where she had led the fashion until she was as near forty-five as a single lady can be. A stiff commissariat officer of sixty, famous as a martinet, had then become enamoured of the gravity with which she drove the proprieties four-inhand through the cathedral town society, and had solicited to be taken beside her on the box of the cool coach of ceremony to which that team was harnessed. His proposal of marriage being accepted by the lady, the commissary took his seat rum, and Mrs General drove until the behind the proprieties with great decocommissary died. In the course of their united journey, they ran over several people who came in the way of the proprieties; but always in a high style, and with composure. "The commissary having been buried with all the decorations suitable to the service (the whole team of proprieties were harnessed to his hearse, and they all had feathers and black velvet hous ings, with his coat-of-arms in the corner), Mrs General began to inquire what quantity of dust and ashes was deposited at the bankers'." This, we suppose, is meant for a humorous bit of satirical description, though what the metaphors mean we cannot divine. However, Mrs General, to the exhibition of whom, at full length, half a page would be an ample concession, twaddles and attitudinises through a great number of scenes, till an attempt is made to create a languid excitement about her, by making old Dorrit, in his dotage, conceive the idea of proposing to her; which design is, however, nipt in the bud by his timely decease. In the course of one of her prosings, Mrs General delivers herself as follows: "Papa is a preferable mode of address,' observed Mrs General. Father 1857.] : Remonstrance with Dickens. is rather vulgar, my dear. The word Papa, besides, gives a pretty form to the lips. Papa, potatoes, poultry, prunes, and prism, are all very good words for the lips especially prunes and prism. You will find it serviceable, in the formation of a demeanour, if you sometimes say to yourself in company-on entering a room, for instance-Papa, potatoes, poultry, prunes and prism, prunes and prism.' Will it be believed that the Dickens whom we remember of yore (eheu, quantum mutatus!), instead of being ashamed of this puerility, becomes positively enamoured of it, as an excellent joke worthy of frequent repetition? Little Dorrit, to whom the maxim is addressed, presently afterwards fixes "her loving eyes upon very nearher father, whom she had ly addressed as poultry, if not prunes and prism too, in her desire to submit herself to Mrs General, and please him." Then "Mrs General made a sweeping obeisance, and retired with an expression of mouth indicative of prunes and prism." Next she is said 66 wholesale amount to have infused of prunes and prism, into the family life." This gibberish goes on acquiring importance, till, in the author's mind, it means something, though what, we don't know. "Prunes and prism, in a thousand combinations, having been wearily in the ascendant all day," till at last we hear of "the prunes and prism school," then "prunes and prism get the on through upper hand," and so many chapters indeed, we fear we haven't done with the joke, whatever it is, yet. It is difficult to perceive by what steps a humour so true and rich as Dickens's could descend to this, and revel in it. To show to what a great writer may come under such influences as those which preside over Little Dorrit, we will transcribe one dialogue, premising that the incident (such as it is) therein alluded to, leads to nothing whatever. a "What is it, Mrs Tickit?' said he. "You don't mean Tatty' 666 Coram, yes I do!' quoth Mrs Tickit, "Mr Clennam,' returned Mrs Tickit, "Without entering upon an inquiry 666 'Well, sir,' proceeded Mrs Tickit, 'I "Precisely so,' said Clennam. 'Well?' "You find it so yourself, sir, I'll be find it so. It an't our stations in life bold to say,' said Mrs Tickit, and we all that changes us, Mr Clennam; thoughts of one thing, and thinking of another, and is free!-As I was saying, I was thinking of the family in the present times only, thinking very much of the family. Not but in the past times too. For when a and thinking of another, in that manner person does begin thinking of one thing as it's getting dark, what I say is that all times seem to be present, and a person must get out of that state, and consider before they can say which is which.' "He nodded again, afraid to utter a word, lest it should present any new powers. opening to Mrs Tickit's conversational "In consequence of which,' said Mrs Tickit, when I quivered my eyes and saw her actual form and figure looking in at the gate, I let them close again without so much as starting; for that actual form and figure came so pat to the time when it belonged to the house as much as mine or your own, that I never thought at the moment of its haved my eyes again and saw that it wasn't ing gone away. But, sir, when I quiverthere, then it all flooded upon me with a fright, and I jumped up.' "You ran out directly?' said Clennam. "I ran out,' assented Mrs Tickit, as fast as ever my feet would carry me ; and if you'll credit it, Mr Clennam, there wasn't in the whole shining heavens, no, not so much as a finger of that young woman.' Passing over the absence from the firmament of this novel constellation, Arthur inquired of Mrs Tickit if she herself went beyond the gate. "Went to and fro, and high and low,' said Mrs Tickit, and saw no sign of her.' "He then asked Mrs Tickit how long a space of time she supposed there might have been between the two sets of ocular quiverings she had experienced? Mrs Tickit, though minutely circumstantial in her reply, had no settled opinion between five seconds and ten minutes. She was so plainly at sea on this part of the case, and had so clearly been startled out of slumber, that Clennam was much disposed to regard the appearance as a dream. Without hurting Mrs Tickit's feelings with that infidel solution of her mystery, he took it away from the cottage with him; and probably would have retained it ever afterwards, if a circumstance had not soon happened to change his opinion." In Dickens's estimation, there is no such thing as insignificance. Throughout the book there is the same tendency apparent to exhaust every part of every subject, whether description, narration, or dialogue, the result being, of course, altogether inadequate to the power exercised, because the material is so worthless. It is like employing some vast machine that is meant for welding iron and cutting steel to macerate old rags. A novel which, besides being destitute of well-considered plot, is not a novel of incident or character, can scarcely be a great picture of life; indeed, the number of puppets, dummies, and unnatural creations that grimace and jerk their way along the scenes, forbid it to be so considered. "All the world's a stage," says Shakespeare, "and all the men and women merely players."-" All the world's a puppet-show," says Dickens, " and all the men and women fantoccini. See here, ladies and gentlemen, I take this abstract quality, which is one of the characteristics of the present day, and which you will therefore like to see-I select this individual trait from the heap you see lying by meI add a bit of virtue, because it looks well to detect a soul of goodness in things evil -I dress the combination in these garments, which I got off a man in the street. Observe now, when I pull the strings (and I don't mind letting you see me pulling the strings all through the exhibition-no deception, ladies and gentlemen, none), how natural the action! how effective the character!" And all the languid people in the boxes, and the stupid people in the pit, and the gods in the galleries, clap their hands, and cry, Bravo! hurrah! But there are many people in the boxes who are not languid, many in the pit who are not stupid, and there is good sense even among the gods; and the applause is not unqualified. of the kinds we have mentioned, If, then, this is not a work of any what is it? We really cannot tell; but we should imagine that Mr Dickens, seeing his large canvass spread, remembering his successes, and feeling his power of work, conceives always an ambitious design of being at once a graphic story-teller, a social reformer, a limner of life, a great moral teacher, and a political satirist, and between all these stools, some of which have very weak legs, comes ignominiously to the ground, where he sits as complacently as if he were throned on Olympus. What can be weaker in itself, to say nothing of the total want of art in connecting it with the story, than the intended satire on the Circumlocution Office? We don't in the least wish to stand up for the Circumlocution Office-curse the Circumlocution Office, say we. We know well the amount of insolence and ignorance to be found among Government officials of all departments. But the attempt to show it up in Little Dorrit is as inartificial as if he had cut halfa-dozen leading articles out of an Opposition newspaper, and stuck them in anyhow, anywhere. Besides, in all his attempts to embody political questions, Dickens has never shown a spark of original thought. He is merely waving, as an oriflamme, a ragged old standard, with a great staring legend on it, stained with beer, and smelling villanously of tobacco, in consequence of long figuring at contested elections. We don't blame him for not being a great politician. It would be almost miraculous if a man with such rare power of individualising as he is endowed with, should possess also the power of habitually considering questions 1857.] Remonstrance with Dickens. in their most comprehensive and ab- On reading over what we have Therelike it, and are sorry you wrote in a style below your reputation. fore, dear Dickens, don't listen to your adulators-listen to us, your true friend and admirer. We appeal from the author of Bleak House and Little Dorrit to the author of Pickwick, the Old Curiosity Shop, and the better parts of Chuzzlewit. Not in humour only are you dear to us, but in tragedy also, and in pathos we own your power. Paul Dombey -heaven knows how fond we were of that boy!-whose short life we have never yet been able to read consecutively through, the page always growing dim and blurred long before the little spark is quenched. Sykes, too, and Fagin, in their ends attest your tragic power, though we never knew nor cared under what statute the latter was condemned. And for fancy and humour and pathos combined, there is that entire and perfect chrysolite the Christmas Carol, which eve to an audience that ever still rewe read aloud ever on a Christmas sponds with weeping and with laughter. Remembering these benefits, ungrateful should we be beyond all measure of ingratitude, should we now write one word in spirit otherwise than of truest friendship of him who wrote so well in the brave days of old. And if you take our advice, and give your rare powers fair play, laying aside your pen for awhile, collecting fitting materials in your own fields, without wandering into regions strange to you, and, when fully ripe, expressing the results of your marvellous faculty of observation in your old natural, humorous, graphic, pathetic way, we, as we read, gladdest of your readers, that matured evidence of your genius, will bow ourselves before you, and (while secretly exulting in the fruit our words have borne) will humbly crave forgiveness for our bold though honest remonstrance, rejoicing more over your repentance than over ninety and nine respectable writers who have never gone astray. But if you do not take our advice, and mean to go on building streets of Bleak Houses, and creating crowds of Little Dorrits, then we reIn commend you to inscribe on your next serial, "A Banter on the British Public. By Charles Dickens. Twenty Parts." LETTERS FROM A LIGHTHOUSE.-NO. III. MY DEAR EBONY,-So-the game is up; and that old Parliament, with its manifold inconsistencies, manœuvres, and eccentricities, is about to give up the ghost! Whether we shall have a better in lieu of it may be a question; but I am not very sanguine on the subject. It is the fashion, in politics as in private life, to abuse the defunct, and to speak all manner of evil regarding it, without due consideration of its better points. This I hold to be a base and degrading practice. Let us be just to the dear departed-for such I may style her to be, though she is only moribund while I write and let us give her credit for courage and pugnacity at least, in having over-crowed three separate ministries in less than five years. I say nothing about the defeat of the Derby Administration, because that was matter of certainty so soon as the roll of the House of Commons was made up; and party strife had been so hot previous to 1852, that it was plainly impossible that a ministry, which did not command a majority, could stand its ground against the attacks of a fierce though divided opposition. The defeat of the Aberdeen Administration was much more remarkable; for, although Lord John Russell had a notable share in that transaction, it is impossible to deny that the House of Commons displayed right feeling and honest independence in visiting with their censure the misconduct of the imbeciles who had neither the talent, energy, nor disposition to prosecute the war with vigour, and whose outrageous blundering so justly brought down a storm of indignation on their heads. On that occasion the Lower House was undoubtedly the exponent of the feeling of the country; and I do not know that I ever received any kind of intelligence with more sincere joy than I experienced when I heard the news of the ignominious expulsion of Aberdeen and his junta of incapable supporters. Again, I think this last defeat of Palmerston on the Chinese question must be taken as an additional proof of the independent feel I ing of the House. It is all stuff, and nonsense, and the merest clap-trap, to talk of a coalition having been made in this instance for the purpose of defeating the Ministry. No one can be better aware of that than Palmerston himself; and I am not a little surprised that he should so far have demeaned himself as even to have expressed a suspicion of the possibility of any such combination. Coalitions may be made when the coalescing parties intend or expect to be able to work together after they have gained their common object. Thus Mr Gladstone could coalesce cordially enough with the Whigs in effecting the overthrow of Lord Derby, because he expected to become a member of a cabinet in which the Whigs should have a numerical preponderance. do not charge him with any impropriety for having done so. Doubtless he followed his own convictions, and saw his way into the future as clearly as he will ever be able to see it, before acting in concert with his old antagonists. But does any man of sense believe that, on the recent occasion, Lord John Russell was acting in concert with Disraeli, or Cobden with Sir E. B. Lytton, or W. J. Fox with Lord John Manners, or Roebuck with Mr Gladstone, or Sir F. Baring with Mr Newdegate, or Mr Murray Dunlop with Mr Baillie Cochrane? Upon what common point of political opinion could these men possibly coalesce? Objectionable as the policy of Lord Palmerston might be upon many points, his government was not odious. If he refused to go so far as the advanced section of the Liberals could wish, that refusal would naturally conciliate, not incense, the Conservatives. On the other hand, the advanced Liberals can hardly be supposed to have desired his overthrow, in order that a new ministry might be constructed from the Tory ranks. For my own part, if I were a keen politician, as most men become after entering the House of Commons, I should, while voting with the majority, have regretted the necessity of doing so ; for, in the present confused |