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 Appreciations and
Criticisms of the Works
of Charles Dickens

G. K. Chesterton
APPRECIATIONS AND CRITICISMS
of the works of CHARLES DICKENS

BY

G. K. CHESTERTON

1911
 Charles Dickens, Circa 1840
From an oil painting by R. J. Lane.
CONTENTS

I. INTRODUCTION
II. SKETCHES BY BOZ
III. PICKWICK PAPERS
IV. NICHOLAS NICKLEBY
V. OLIVER TWIST
VI. OLD CURIOSITY SHOP
VII. BARNABY RUDGE
VIII. AMERICAN NOTES
IX. PICTURES FROM ITALY
X. MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT
XI. CHRISTMAS BOOKS
XII. DOMBEY AND SON
XIII. DAVID COPPERFIELD
XIV. CHRISTMAS STORIES
XV. BLEAK HOUSE
XVI. CHILD’S HISTORY OF ENGLAND
XVII. HARD TIMES
XVIII. LITTLE DORRIT
XIX. A TALE OF TWO CITIES
XX. GREAT EXPECTATIONS
XXI. OUR MUTUAL FRIEND
XXII. EDWIN DROOD
XXIII. MASTER HUMPHREY’S CLOCK
XXIV. REPRINTED PIECES
ILLUSTRATIONS

CHARLES DICKENS, CIRCA 1840 FRONTISPIECE

From an oil painting by R. J. Lane.

CHARLES DICKENS, 1842

From a bust by H. Dexter, executed during Dickens’s first visit to
America.

CHARLES DICKENS, 1844

From a miniature by Margaret Gillies.

CHARLES DICKENS, 1849

From a daguerreotype by Mayall.

CHARLES DICKENS, 1858

From a black and white drawing by Baughiet.

CHARLES DICKENS, 1859

From an oil painting by W. P. Frith, R.A.

CHARLES DICKENS, CIRCA 1860

Photograph by J. & C. Watkins.

CHARLES DICKENS, 1868

From a photograph by Gurney.
 INTRODUCTION

These papers were originally published as prefaces to the separate

books of Dickens in one of the most extensive of those cheap libraries
of the classics which are one of the real improvements of recent
times. Thus they were harmless, being diluted by, or rather drowned
in Dickens. My scrap of theory was a mere dry biscuit to be taken
with the grand tawny port of great English comedy; and by most
people it was not taken at all—like the biscuit. Nevertheless the
essays were not in intention so aimless as they appear in fact. I had a
general notion of what needed saying about Dickens to the new
generation, though probably I did not say it. I will make another
attempt to do so in this prologue, and, possibly fail again.

There was a painful moment (somewhere about the eighties) when

we watched anxiously to see whether Dickens was fading from the
modern world. We have watched a little longer, and with great relief
we begin to realise that it is the modern world that is fading. All that
universe of ranks and respectabilities in comparison with which
Dickens was called a caricaturist, all that Victorian universe in which
he seemed vulgar—all that is itself breaking up like a cloudland.
And only the caricatures of Dickens remain like things carved in
stone. This, of course, is an old story in the case of a man reproached
with any excess of the poetic. Again and again when the man of
visions was pinned by the sly dog who knows the world,

“The man recovered of the bite,

The dog it was that died.”

To call Thackeray a cynic, which means a sly dog, was indeed

absurd; but it is fair to say that in comparison with Dickens he felt
himself a man of the world. Nevertheless, that world of which he
was a man is coming to an end before our eyes; its aristocracy has
grown corrupt, its middle class insecure, and things that he never
thought of are walking about the drawing-rooms of both. Thackeray
has described for ever the Anglo-Indian Colonel; but what on earth
would he have done with an Australian Colonel? What can it matter
whether Dickens’s clerks talked cockney now that half the duchesses
talk American? What would Thackeray have made of an age in
which a man in the position of Lord Kew may actually be the born
brother of Mr. Moss of Wardour Street? Nor does this apply merely
to Thackeray, but to all those Victorians who prided themselves on
the realism or sobriety of their descriptions; it applies to Anthony
Trollope and, as much as any one, to George Eliot. For we have not
only survived that present which Thackeray described: we have even
survived that future to which George Eliot looked forward. It is no
longer adequate to say that Dickens did not understand that old
world of gentility, of parliamentary politeness and the balance of the
constitution. That world is rapidly ceasing to understand itself. It is
vain to repeat the complaint of the old Quarterly Reviewers, that
Dickens had not enjoyed a university education. What would the old
Quarterly Reviewers themselves have thought of the Rhodes
Scholarships? It is useless to repeat the old tag that Dickens could
not describe a gentleman. A gentleman in our time has become
something quite indescribable.

Now the interesting fact is this: That Dickens, whom so many

considered to be at the best a vulgar enthusiast, saw the coming
change in our society much more soberly and scientifically than did
his better educated and more pretentious contemporaries. I give but
one example out of many. Thackeray was a good Victorian radical,
who seems to have gone to his grave quite contented with the early
Victorian radical theory—the theory which Macaulay preached with
unparalleled luminosity and completeness; the theory that true
progress goes on so steadily through human history, that while
reaction is indefensible, revolution is unnecessary. Thackeray seems
to have been quite content to think that the world would grow more
and more liberal in the limited sense; that Free Trade would get
freer; that ballot boxes would grow more and more secret; that at last
(as some satirist of Liberalism puts it) every man would have two
votes instead of one. There is no trace in Thackeray of the slightest
consciousness that progress could ever change its direction. There is
in Dickens. The whole of Hard Times is the expression of just such a
realisation. It is not true to say that Dickens was a Socialist, but it is
not absurd to say so. And it would be simply absurd to say it of any
of the great Individualist novelists of the Victorian time. Dickens saw
far enough ahead to know that the time was coming when the
people would be imploring the State to save them from mere
freedom, as from some frightful foreign oppressor. He felt the
society changing; and Thackeray never did.

As talking about Socialism and Individualism is one of the greatest

bores ever endured among men, I will take another instance to
illustrate my meaning, even though the instance be a queer and even
a delicate one. Even if the reader does not agree with my deduction, I
ask his attention to the fact itself, which I think a curiosity of
literature. In the last important work of Dickens, that excellent book
Our Mutual Friend, there is an odd thing about which I cannot make
up my mind; I do not know whether it is unconscious observation or
fiendish irony. But it is this. In Our Mutual Friend is an old patriarch
named Aaron, who is a saintly Jew made to do the dirty work of an
abominable Christian usurer. In an artistic sense I think the patriarch
Aaron as much of a humbug as the patriarch Casby. In a moral sense
there is no doubt at all that Dickens introduced the Jew with a
philanthropic idea of doing justice to Judaism, which he was told he
had affronted by the great gargoyle of Fagin. If this was his motive, it
was morally a most worthy one. But it is certainly unfortunate for
the Hebrew cause that the bad Jew should be so very much more
convincing than the good one. Old Aaron is not an exaggeration of
Jewish virtues; he is simply not Jewish, because he is not human.
There is nothing about him that in any way suggests the nobler sort
of Jew, such a man as Spinoza or Mr. Zangwill. He is simply a public
apology, and like most public apologies, he is very stiff and not very
convincing.

So far so good. Now we come to the funny part. To describe the high
visionary and mystic Jew like Spinoza or Zangwill is a great and
delicate task in which even Dickens might have failed. But most of
us know something of the make and manners of the low Jew, who is
generally the successful one. Most of us know the Jew who calls
himself De Valancourt. Now to any one who knows a low Jew by
sight or hearing, the story called Our Mutual Friend is literally full of
Jews. Like all Dickens’s best characters they are vivid; we know
them. And we know them to be Hebrew. Mr. Veneering, the Man
from Nowhere, dark, sphinx-like, smiling, with black curling hair,
and a taste in florid vulgar furniture—of what stock was he? Mr.
Lammle, with “too much nose in his face, too much ginger in his
whiskers, too much sparkle in his studs and manners”—of what
blood was he? Mr. Lammle’s friends, coarse and thick-lipped, with
fingers so covered with rings that they could hardly hold their gold
pencils—do they remind us of anybody? Mr. Fledgeby, with his little
ugly eyes and social flashiness and craven bodily servility—might
not some fanatic like M. Drumont make interesting conjectures about
him? The particular types that people hate in Jewry, the types that
are the shame of all good Jews, absolutely run riot in this book,
which is supposed to contain an apology to them. It looks at first
sight as if Dickens’s apology were one hideous sneer. It looks as if he
put in one good Jew whom nobody could believe in, and then
balanced him with ten bad Jews whom nobody could fail to
recognise. It seems as if he had avenged himself for the doubt about
Fagin by introducing five or six Fagins—triumphant Fagins,
fashionable Fagins, Fagins who had changed their names. The
impeccable old Aaron stands up in the middle of this ironic carnival
with a peculiar solemnity and silliness. He looks like one particularly
stupid Englishman pretending to be a Jew, amidst all that crowd of
clever Jews who are pretending to be Englishmen.

But this notion of a sneer is not admissible. Dickens was far too frank
and generous a writer to employ such an elaborate plot of silence.
His satire was always intended to attack, never to entrap; moreover,
he was far too vain a man not to wish the crowd to see all his jokes.
Vanity is more divine than pride, because it is more democratic than
pride. Third, and most important, Dickens was a good Liberal, and
would have been horrified at the notion of making so venomous a
vendetta against one race or creed. Nevertheless the fact is there, as I
say, if only as a curiosity of literature. I defy any man to read
through Our Mutual Friend after hearing this suggestion, and to get
out of his head the conviction that Lammle is the wrong kind of Jew.
The explanation lies, I think, in this, that Dickens was so wonderfully
sensitive to that change that has come over our society, that he
noticed the type of the oriental and cosmopolitan financier without
even knowing that it was oriental or cosmopolitan. He had, in fact,
fallen a victim to a very simple fallacy affecting this problem.
Somebody said, with great wit and truth, that treason cannot
prosper, because when it prospers it cannot be called treason. The
same argument soothed all possible Anti-Semitism in men like
Dickens. Jews cannot be sneaks and snobs, because when they are
sneaks and snobs they do not admit that they are Jews.

I have taken this case of the growth of the cosmopolitan financier,

because it is not so stale in discussion as its parallel, the growth of
Socialism. But as regards Dickens, the same criticism applies to both.
Dickens knew that Socialism was coming, though he did not know
its name. Similarly, Dickens knew that the South African millionaire
was coming, though he did not know the millionaire’s name.
Nobody does. His was not a type of mind to disentangle either the
abstract truths touching the Socialist, nor the highly personal truth
about the millionaire. He was a man of impressions; he has never
been equalled in the art of conveying what a man looks like at first
sight—and he simply felt the two things as atmospheric facts. He felt
that the mercantile power was oppressive, past all bearing by
Christian men; and he felt that this power was no longer wholly in
the hands even of heavy English merchants like Podsnap. It was
largely in the hands of a feverish and unfamiliar type, like Lammle
and Veneering. The fact that he felt these things is almost more
impressive because he did not understand them.

Now for this reason Dickens must definitely be considered in the

light of the changes which his soul foresaw. Thackeray has become
classical; but Dickens has done more: he has remained modern. The
grand retrospective spirit of Thackeray is by its nature attached to
places and times; he belongs to Queen Victoria as much as Addison
belongs to Queen Anne, and it is not only Queen Anne who is dead.
But Dickens, in a dark prophetic kind of way, belongs to the
developments. He belongs to the times since his death when Hard
Times grew harder, and when Veneering became not only a Member
of Parliament, but a Cabinet Minister; the times when the very soul
and spirit of Fledgeby carried war into Africa. Dickens can be
criticised as a contemporary of Bernard Shaw or Anatole France or C.
F. G. Masterman. In talking of him one need no longer talk merely of
the Manchester School or Puseyism or the Charge of the Light
Brigade; his name comes to the tongue when we are talking of
Christian Socialists or Mr. Roosevelt or County Council Steam Boats
or Guilds of Play. He can be considered under new lights, some
larger and some meaner than his own; and it is a very rough effort so
to consider him which is the excuse of these pages. Of the essays in
this book I desire to say as little as possible; I will discuss any other
subject in preference with a readiness which reaches to avidity. But I
may very curtly apply the explanation used above to the cases of two
or three of them. Thus in the article on David Copperfield I have done
far less than justice to that fine book considered in its relation to
eternal literature; but I have dwelt at some length upon a particular
element in it which has grown enormous in England after Dickens’s
death. Thus again, in introducing the Sketches by Boz I have felt
chiefly that I am introducing them to a new generation insufficiently
in sympathy with such palpable and unsophisticated fun. A Board
School education, evolved since Dickens’s day, has given to our
people a queer and inadequate sort of refinement, one which
prevents them from enjoying the raw jests of the Sketches by Boz, but
leaves them easily open to that slight but poisonous sentimentalism
which I note amid all the merits of David Copperfield. In the same
way I shall speak of Little Dorrit, with reference to a school of
pessimistic fiction which did not exist when it was written, of Hard
Times in the light of the most modern crises of economics, and of The
Child’s History of England in the light of the most matured authority
of history. In short, these criticisms are an intrinsically ephemeral
comment from one generation upon work that will delight many
more. Dickens was a very great man, and there are many ways of
testing and stating the fact. But one permissible way is to say this,
that he was an ignorant man, ill-read in the past, and often confused
about the present. Yet he remains great and true, and even
essentially reliable, if we suppose him to have known not only all
that went before his lifetime, but also all that was to come after.

From this vanishing of the Victorian compromise (I might say the

Victorian illusion) there begins to emerge a menacing and even
monstrous thing—we may begin again to behold the English people.
If that strange dawn ever comes, it will be the final vindication of
Dickens. It will be proved that he is hardly even a caricaturist; that
he is something very like a realist. Those comic monstrosities which
the critics found incredible will be found to be the immense majority
of the citizens of this country. We shall find that Sweedlepipe cuts
our hair and Pumblechook sells our cereals; that Sam Weller blacks
our boots and Tony Weller drives our omnibus. For the exaggerated
notion of the exaggerations of Dickens (as was admirably pointed
out by my old friend and enemy Mr. Blatchford in a Clarion review)
is very largely due to our mixing with only one social class, whose
conventions are very strict, and to whose affectations we are
accustomed. In cabmen, in cobblers, in charwomen, individuality is
often pushed to the edge of insanity. But as long as the Thackerayan
platform of gentility stood firm all this was, comparatively speaking,
concealed. For the English, of all nations, have the most uniform
upper class and the most varied democracy. In France it is the
peasants who are solid to uniformity; it is the marquises who are a
little mad. But in England, while good form restrains and levels the
universities and the army, the poor people are the most motley and
amusing creatures in the world, full of humorous affections and
prejudices and twists of irony. Frenchmen tend to be alike, because
they are all soldiers; Prussians because they are all something else,
probably policemen; even Americans are all something, though it is
not easy to say what it is; it goes with hawk-like eyes and an
irrational eagerness. Perhaps it is savages. But two English cabmen
will be as grotesquely different as Mr. Weller and Mr. Wegg. Nor is
it true to say that I see this variety because it is in my own people.
For I do not see the same degree of variety in my own class or in the
class above it; there is more superficial resemblance between two
Kensington doctors or two Highland dukes. No; the democracy is
really composed of Dickens characters, for the simple reason that
Dickens was himself one of the democracy.

There remains one thing to be added to this attempt to exhibit

Dickens in the growing and changing lights of our time. God forbid
that any one (especially any Dickensian) should dilute or discourage
the great efforts towards social improvement. But I wish that social
reformers would more often remember that they are imposing their
rules not on dots and numbers, but on Bob Sawyer and Tim
Linkinwater, on Mrs. Lirriper and Dr. Marigold. I wish Mr. Sidney
Webb would shut his eyes until he sees Sam Weller.

A great many circumstances have led to the neglect in literature of

these exuberant types which do actually exist in the ruder classes of
society. Perhaps the principal cause is that since Dickens’s time the
study of the poor has ceased to be an art and become a sort of sham
science. Dickens took the poor individually: all modern writing
tends to take them collectively. It is said that the modern realist
produces a photograph rather than a picture. But this is an
inadequate objection. The real trouble with the realist is not that he
produces a photograph, but that he produces a composite
photograph. It is like all composite photographs, blurred; like all
composite photographs, hideous; and like all composite
photographs, unlike anything or anybody. The new sociological
novels, which attempt to describe the abstract type of the working-
classes, sin in practice against the first canon of literature, true when
all others are subject to exception. Literature must always be a
pointing out of what is interesting in life; but these books are duller
than the life they represent. Even supposing that Dickens did
exaggerate the degree to which one man differs from another—that
was at least an exaggeration upon the side of literature; it was better
than a mere attempt to reduce what is actually vivid and
unmistakable to what is in comparison colourless or unnoticeable.
Even the creditable and necessary efforts of our time in certain
matters of social reform have discouraged the old distinctive Dickens
treatment. People are so anxious to do something for the poor man
that they have a sort of subconscious desire to think that there is only
one kind of man to do it for. Thus while the old accounts were
sometimes too steep and crazy, the new became too sweeping and
flat. People write about the problem of drink, for instance, as if it
were one problem. Dickens could have told them that there is the
abyss between heaven and hell between the incongruous excesses of
Mr. Pickwick and the fatalistic soaking of Mr. Wickfield. He could
have shown that there was nothing in common between the brandy
and water of Bob Sawyer and the rum and water of Mr. Stiggins.
People talk of imprudent marriages among the poor, as if it were all
one question. Dickens could have told them that it is one thing to
marry without much money, like Stephen Blackpool, and quite
another to marry without the smallest intention of ever trying to get
any, like Harold Skimpole. People talk about husbands in the
working-classes being kind or brutal to their wives, as if that was the
one permanent problem and no other possibility need be considered.
Dickens could have told them that there was the case (the by no
means uncommon case) of the husband of Mrs. Gargery as well as of
the wife of Mr. Quilp. In short, Dickens saw the problem of the poor
not as a dead and definite business, but as a living and very complex
one. In some ways he would be called much more conservative than
the modern sociologists, in some ways much more revolutionary.

LITTLE DORRIT

In the time of the decline and death of Dickens, and even more
strongly after it, there arose a school of criticism which substantially
maintained that a man wrote better when he was ill. It was some
such sentiment as this that made Mr. George Gissing, that able
writer, come near to contending that Little Dorrit is Dickens’s best
book. It was the principle of his philosophy to maintain (I know not
why) that a man was more likely to perceive the truth when in low
spirits than when in high spirits.

REPRINTED PIECES

The three articles on Sunday of which I speak are almost the last
expression of an articulate sort in English literature of the ancient
and existing morality of the English people. It is always asserted that
Puritanism came in with the seventeenth century and thoroughly
soaked and absorbed the English. We are now, it is constantly said,
an incurably Puritanic people. Personally, I have my doubts about
this. I shall not refuse to admit to the Puritans that they conquered
and crushed the English people; but I do not think that they ever
transformed it. My doubt is chiefly derived from three historical
facts. First, that England was never so richly and recognisably
English as in the Shakespearian age before the Puritan had appeared.
Second, that ever since he did appear there has been a long unbroken
line of brilliant and typical Englishmen who belonged to the
Shakespearian and not the Puritanic tradition; Dryden, Johnson,
Wilkes, Fox, Nelson, were hardly Puritans. And third, that the real
rise of a new, cold, and illiberal morality in these matters seems to
me to have occurred in the time of Queen Victoria, and not of Queen
Elizabeth. All things considered, it is likely that future historians will
say that the Puritans first really triumphed in the twentieth century,
and that Dickens was the last cry of Merry England.

And about these additional, miscellaneous, and even inferior works

of Dickens there is, moreover, another use and fascination which all
Dickensians will understand; which, after a manner, is not for the
profane. All who love Dickens have a strange sense that he is really
inexhaustible. It is this fantastic infinity that divides him even from
the strongest and healthiest romantic artists of a later day—from
Stevenson, for example. I have read Treasure Island twenty times;
nevertheless I know it. But I do not really feel as if I knew all
Pickwick; I have not so much read it twenty times as read in it a
million times; and it almost seemed as if I always read something
new. We of the true faith look at each other and understand; yes, our
master was a magician. I believe the books are alive; I believe that
leaves still grow in them, as leaves grow on the trees. I believe that
this fairy library flourishes and increases like a fairy forest: but the
world is listening to us, and we will put our hand upon our mouth.

OUR MUTUAL FRIEND

One thing at least seems certain. Dickens may or may not have been
socialist in his tendencies; one might quote on the affirmative side
his satire against Mr. Podsnap, who thought Centralisation “un-
English”; one might quote in reply the fact that he satirised quite as
unmercifully state and municipal officials of the most modern type.
But there is one condition of affairs which Dickens would certainly
have detested and denounced, and that is the condition in which we
actually stand to-day. At this moment it is vain to discuss whether
socialism will be a selling of men’s liberty for bread. The men have
already sold the liberty; only they have not yet got the bread. A most
incessant and exacting interference with the poor is already in
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