Some of them had thorns, which hurt his thin skin horribly, but they
never made him despair or doubt the goodness of the universe. Being
vexed, he let it off in anger instead of distilling it into pessimism to
poison himself. Life was too everlastingly interesting for him to be long
unhappy. A draught of his own triumph would restore him, a slice of his
own work would reinvigorate him, and he would go on with his industrious
dreaming.
No one enjoyed the reading of his books more than he the making of them,
though he sometimes suffered keenly in the process. That was a proof of
his faith that happiness does not consist in the absence of suffering,
but in the presence of joy. Dulness, insincerity, stupid humbug—_voilà
l’ennemi!_ So he lived and wrote with a high hand and an outstretched
arm. He made men see what he saw, and hate what he hated, and love what
he loved. This was his great reward,—more than money, fame, or hosts of
friends,—that he saw the children of his brain enter into the common life
of the world.
[Illustration: CHARLES DICKENS AS CAPTAIN BOBADIL IN “EVERY MAN IN HIS
HUMOUR.”