His statements were not true; his pictures were not
just; his prejudice led him to malign a people who had received him with
a foolish hospitality. He had eaten and drunk at the hands of the men whom
he abused, and his character suffered more than that of his intended
victims. In taking a few foibles for his caricature, he had left our
merits untold, and had been guilty of the implication that we had none,
although he knew that there were as elegant gentlemen, as refined ladies,
and as cultivated society in America as the best in England. But a truce
to reproaches; he has been fully forgiven.
His next novel was _Dombey and Son_, in which he attacks British pomp and
pride of state in the haughty merchant. It is full of character and of
pathos. Every one knows, as if they had appeared among us, the proud and
rigid Dombey, J. B. the sly, the unhappy Floy, the exquisite Toots, the
inimitable Nipper, Sol Gills the simple, and Captain Cuttle with his hook
and his notes.
This was followed by _David Copperfield_, which is, to some extent, an
autobiography describing the struggles of his youth, his experience in
acquiring short-hand to become a reporter, and other vicissitudes of his
own life.
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