Charles Dickens. 1812-1870, one of the greatest novelists of modern,
times, was born in Portsmouth, but spent nearly all his life in London.
His father was a conscientious man, but lacked capacity for getting a
livelihood. In consequence, the boy's youth was much darkened by poverty.
It has been supposed that he pictured his father in the character of
"Micawber." He began his active life as a lawyer's apprentice; but soon
left this employment to become a reporter. This occupation he followed
from 1831 to 1836. His first book was entitled "Sketches of London
Society, by Boz." This was followed, in 1837, by the "Pickwick Papers," a
work which suddenly brought much fame to the author. His other works
followed with great rapidity, and his last was unfinished at the time of
his death. He was buried in Westminster Abbey. Mr. Dickens visited America
in 1842, and again in 1867. During his last visit, he read his works in
public, in the principal cities of the United States.
The resources of Dickens's genius seemed exhaustless. He copied no author,
imitated none, but relied entirely on his own powers. He excelled
especially in humor and pathos. He gathered materials for his works by the
most careful and faithful observation. And he painted his characters with
a fidelity so true to their different individualities that, although they
sometimes have a quaint grotesqueness bordering on caricature, they stand
before the memory as living realities. He was particularly successful in
the delineation of the joys and griefs of childhood. "Little Nell" and
little "Paul Dombey" are known, and have been loved and wept over, in
almost every household where the English language is read. His writings
present very vividly the wants and sufferings of the poor, and have a
tendency to prompt to kindness and benevolence. His works have not escaped
criticism. It has been said that "his good characters act from impulse,
not from principle," and that he shows "a tricksy spirit of fantastic
exaggeration." It has also been said that his novels sometimes lack
skillful plot, and that he seems to speak approvingly of conviviality and
dissipation. "The Old Curiosity Shop," from which the following extract is
taken, was published in 1840.
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She was dead. No sleep so beautiful and calm, so free from trace of pain,
so fair to look upon. She seemed a creature fresh from the hand of God,
and waiting for the breath of life; not one who had lived, and suffered
death. Her couch was dressed with here and there some winter berries and
green leaves, gathered in a spot she had been used to favor. "When I die,
put near me something that has loved the light, and had the sky above it
always." These were her words.
She was dead. Dear, gentle, patient, noble Nell was dead. Her little bird,
a poor, slight thing the pressure of a finger would have crushed, was
stirring nimbly in its cage, and the strong heart of its child mistress
was mute and motionless forever! Where were the traces of her early cares,
her sufferings, and fatigues? All gone. Sorrow was dead, indeed, in her;
but peace and perfect happiness were born, imaged in her tranquil beauty
and profound repose.
And still her former self lay there, unaltered in this change. Yes! the
old fireside had smiled upon that same sweet face; it had passed, like a
dream, through haunts of misery and care; at the door of the poor
schoolmaster on the summer evening, before the furnace fire upon the cold
wet night, at the still bedside of the dying boy, there had been the same
mild and lovely look. So shall we know the angels, in their majesty, after
death.
The old man held one languid arm in his, and had the small hand tight
folded to his breast for warmth. It was the hand she had stretched out to
him with her last smile; the hand that had led him on through all their
wanderings. Ever and anon he pressed it to his lips; then hugged it to his
breast again, murmuring that it was warmer now, and, as he said it, he
looked in agony to those who stood around, as if imploring them to help
her.
She was dead, and past all help, or need of help. The ancient rooms she
had seemed to fill with life, even while her own was waning fast, the
garden she had tended, the eyes she had gladdened, the noiseless haunts of
many a thoughtful hour, the paths she had trodden, as it were, but
yesterday, could know her no more.
"It is not," said the schoolmaster, as he bent down to kiss her on the
cheek, and gave his tears free vent, "it is not in this world that
heaven's justice ends. Think what earth is, compared with the world to
which her young spirit has winged its early flight, and say, if one
deliberate wish, expressed in solemn tones above this bed, could call her
back to life, which of us would utter it?"
She had been dead two days. They were all about her at the time, knowing
that the end was drawing on. She died soon after daybreak. They had read
and talked to her in the earlier portion of the night; but, as the hours
crept on, she sank to sleep. They could tell by what she faintly uttered
in her dreams, that they were of her journeyings with the old man; they
were of no painful scenes, but of people who had helped them, and used
them kindly; for she often said "God bless you!" with great fervor.
Waking, she never wandered in her mind but once, and that was at beautiful
music, which, she said, was in the air. God knows. It may have been.
Opening her eyes, at last, from a very quiet sleep, she begged that they
would kiss her once again. That done, she turned to the old man, with a
lovely smile upon her face, such, they said, as they had never seen, and
could never forget, and clung, with both her arms, about his neck. She had
never murmured or complained; but, with a quiet mind, and manner quite
unaltered, save that she every day became more earnest and more grateful
to them, faded like the light upon the summer's evening.
The child who had been her little friend, came there, almost as soon as it
was day, with an offering of dried flowers, which he begged them to lay
upon her breast. He told them of his dream again, and that it was of her
being restored to them, just as she used to be. He begged hard to see her:
saying, that he would be very quiet, and that they need not fear his being
alarmed, for he had sat alone by his young brother all day long, when he
was dead, and had felt glad to be so near him. They let him have his wish;
and, indeed, he kept his word, and was, in his childish way, a lesson to
them all.
Up to that time, the old man had not spoken once, except to her, or
stirred from the bedside. But, when he saw her little favorite, he was
moved as they had not seen him yet, and made as though he would have him
come nearer. Then, pointing to the bed, he burst into tears for the first
time, and they who stood by, knowing that the sight of this child had done
him good, left them alone together.
Soothing him with his artless talk of her, the child persuaded him to take
some rest, to walk abroad, to do almost as he desired him. And, when the
day came, on which they must remove her, in her earthly shape, from
earthly eyes forever, he led him away, that he might not know when she was
taken from him. They were to gather fresh leaves and berries for her bed.
And now the bell, the bell she had so often heard by night and day, and
listened to with solemn pleasure, almost as a living voice, rung its
remorseless toll for her, so young, so beautiful, so good. Decrepit age,
and vigorous life, and blooming youth, and helpless infancy,--on crutches,
in the pride of health and strength, in the full blush of promise, in the
mere dawn of life, gathered round her. Old men were there, whose eyes were
dim and senses failing, grandmothers, who might have died ten years ago,
and still been old, the deaf, the blind, the lame, the palsied, the living
dead, in many shapes and forms, to see the closing of that early grave.
Along the crowded path they bore her now, pure as the newly fallen snow
that covered it, whose day on earth had been as fleeting. Under that
porch, where she had sat when heaven, in its mercy, brought her to that
peaceful spot, she passed again, and the old church received her in its
quiet shade.