Dickens's humour was rarely too obvious; it was essentially
personal, original, quaint, unexpected, and his own. His pathos was
not infrequently derived from sources open to all the world, and
capable of being drawn from by very commonplace writers. Little
Nells and Dombeys, children unhappy, overthrown early in the melee
of the world, and dying among weeping readers, no longer affect us
as they affected another generation. Mrs. Beecher Stowe and the
author of "Misunderstood," once made some people weep like anything
by these simple means. Ouida can do it; plenty of people can do it.
Dickens lives by virtue of what none but he can do: by virtue of
Sairey Gamp, and Sam Weller, and Dick Swiveller, and Mr. Squeers,
with a thousand other old friends, of whom we can never weary. No
more than Cleopatra's can custom stale their infinite variety.
I do not say that Dickens' pathos is always of the too facile sort,
which plays round children's death-beds. Other pathos he has, more
fine and not less genuine. It may be morbid and contemptible to
feel "a great inclination to cry" over David Copperfield's boyish
infatuation for Steerforth; but I feel it. Steerforth was a
"tiger,"--as Major Pendennis would have said, a tiger with his curly
hair and his ambrosial whiskers. But when a little boy loses his
heart to a big boy he does not think of this. Traddles thought of
it.
Pages:
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148