_Barnaby Rudge; By Charles Dickens, (Boz) Author of “The Old
Curiosity-Shop,” “Pickwick,” “Oliver Twist,” etc. etc. With
numerous Illustrations, by Cattermole, Browne & Sibson. Lea &
Blanchard: Philadelphia._
We often hear it said, of this or of that proposition, that it may be
good in theory, but will not answer in practice; and in such assertions
we find the substance of all the sneers at Critical Art which so
gracefully curl the upper lips of a tribe which is beneath it. We mean
the small geniuses—the literary Titmice—animalculae which judge of
merit solely by _result_, and boast of the solidity, tangibility and
infallibility of the test which they employ. The worth of a work is most
accurately estimated, they assure us, by the number of those who peruse
it; and “does a book sell?” is a query embodying, in their opinion, all
that need be said or sung on the topic of its fitness for sale. We
should as soon think of maintaining, in the presence of these creatures,
the _dictum_ of Anaxagoras, that snow is black, as of disputing, for
example, the profundity of that genius which, in a run of five hundred
nights, has rendered itself evident in “London Assurance.” “What,” cry
they, “are critical precepts to us, or to anybody? Were we to observe
all the critical rules in creation we should still be unable to write a
good book”—a point, by the way, which we shall not now pause to deny.
“Give us _results_,” they vociferate, “for we are plain men of common
sense. We contend for fact instead of fancy—for practice in opposition
to theory.”
The mistake into which the Titmice have been innocently led, however, is
precisely that of dividing the practice which they would uphold, from
the theory to which they would object. They should have been told in
infancy, and thus prevented from exposing themselves in old age, that
theory and practice are in so much _one_, that the former implies or
includes the latter. A theory is only good as such, in proportion to its
reducibility to practice. If the practice fail, it is because the theory
is imperfect. To say what they are in the daily habit of saying—that
such or such a matter may be good in theory but is false in
practice,—is to perpetrate a bull—to commit a paradox—to state a
contradiction in terms—in plain words, to tell a lie _which is a lie at
sight_ to the understanding of anything bigger than a Titmouse.
But we have no idea, just now, of persecuting the Tittlebats by too
close a scrutiny into their little opinions. It is not our purpose, for
example, to press them with so grave a weapon as the _argumentum ad
absurdum_, or to ask them why, if the popularity of a book be in fact
the measure of its worth, we should not be at once in condition to admit
the inferiority of “Newton’s Principia” to “Hoyle’s Games;” of “Ernest
Maltravers” to “Jack-the-Giant-Killer,” or “Jack Sheppard,” or “Jack
Brag;” and of “Dick’s Christian Philosopher” to “Charlotte Temple,” or
the “Memoirs of de Grammont,” or to one or two dozen other works which
must be nameless. Our present design is but to speak, at some length, of
a book which in so much concerns the Titmice, that it affords them the
very kind of demonstration which they chiefly affect—_practical_
demonstration—of the fallacy of one of their favorite dogmas; we mean
the dogma that no work of fiction can fully suit, at the same time, the
critical and the popular taste; in fact, that the disregarding or
contravening of Critical Rule is absolutely essential to success, beyond
a certain and very limited extent, with the public at large. And if, in
the course of our random observations—for we have no space for
systematic review—it should appear, incidentally, that the vast
popularity of “Barnaby Rudge” must be regarded less as the measure of
its value, than as the legitimate and inevitable result of certain
well-understood critical propositions reduced by genius into practice,
there will appear nothing more than what has before become apparent in
the “Vicar of Wakefield” of Goldsmith, or in the “Robinson Crusoe” of De
Foe—nothing more, in fact, than what is a truism to all but the
Titmice.
Those who know us will not, from what is here premised, suppose it our
intention, to enter into any wholesale _laudation_ of “Barnaby Rudge.”
In truth, our design may appear, at a cursory glance, to be very
different indeed. Boccalini, in his “Advertisements from Parnassus,”
tells us that a critic once presented Apollo with a severe censure upon
an excellent poem. The God asked him for the beauties of the work. He
replied that he only troubled himself about the errors. Apollo presented
him with a sack of unwinnowed wheat, and bade him pick out all the chaff
for his pains. Now we have not fully made up our minds that the God was
in the right. We are not sure that the limit of critical duty is not
very generally misapprehended. _Excellence_ may be considered an axiom,
or a proposition which becomes self-evident just in proportion to the
clearness or precision with which it is _put_. If it fairly exists, in
this sense, it requires no farther elucidation. It is not excellence if
it need to be demonstrated as such. To point out too particularly the
beauties of a work, is to admit, tacitly, that these beauties are not
wholly admirable. Regarding, then, excellence as that which is capable
of self-manifestation, it but remains for the critic to show when,
where, and how it fails in becoming manifest; and, in this showing, it
will be the fault of the book itself if what of beauty it contains be
not, at least, placed in the fairest light. In a word, we may assume,
notwithstanding a vast deal of pitiable cant upon this topic, that in
pointing out frankly the errors of a work, we do nearly all that is
critically necessary in displaying its merits. In teaching what
perfection _is_, how, in fact, shall we more rationally proceed than in
specifying what it _is not_?
The plot of “Barnaby Rudge” runs thus: About a hundred years ago,
Geoffrey Haredale and John Chester were schoolmates in England—the
former being the scape-goat and drudge of the latter. Leaving school,
the boys become friends, with much of the old understanding. Haredale
loves; Chester deprives him of his mistress. The one cherishes the most
deadly hatred; the other merely contemns and avoids. By routes widely
different both attain mature age. Haredale, remembering his old love,
and still cherishing his old hatred, remains a bachelor and is poor.
Chester, among other crimes, is guilty of the seduction and heartless
abandonment of a gypsy-girl, who, after the desertion of her lover,
gives birth to a son, and, falling into evil courses, is finally hung at
Tyburn. The son is received and taken charge of, at an inn called the
Maypole, upon the borders of Epping forest, and about twelve miles from
London. This inn is kept by one John Willet, a burley-headed and very
obtuse little man, who has a son, Joe, and who employs his _protégé_,
under the single name of Hugh, as perpetual hostler at the inn. Hugh’s
father marries, in the meantime, a rich _parvenue_, who soon dies, but
not before having presented Mr. Chester with a boy, Edward. The father,
(a thoroughly selfish man-of-the-world, whose model is Chesterfield,)
educates this son at a distance, seeing him rarely, and calling him to
the paternal residence, at London, only when he has attained the age of
twenty-four or five. He, the father, has, long ere this time, spent the
fortune brought him by his wife, having been living upon his wits and a
small annuity for some eighteen years. The son is recalled chiefly that
by marrying an heiress, on the strength of his own personal merit and
the reputed wealth of old Chester, he may enable the latter to continue
his gayeties in old age. But of this design, as well as of his poverty,
Edward is kept in ignorance for some three or four years after his
recall; when the father’s discovery of what he considers an inexpedient
love-entanglement on the part of the son, induces him to disclose the
true state of his affairs, as well as the real tenor of his intentions.
Now the love-entanglement of which we speak, is considered inexpedient
by Mr. Chester for two reasons—the first of which is, that the lady
beloved is the orphan niece of his old enemy, Haredale, and the second
is, that Haredale (although in circumstances which have been much and
very unexpectedly improved during the preceding twenty-two years) is
still insufficiently wealthy to meet the views of Mr. Chester.
We say that, about twenty-two years before the period in question, there
came an unlooked-for change in the worldly circumstances of Haredale.
This gentleman has an elder brother, Reuben, who has long possessed the
family inheritance of the Haredales, residing at a mansion called “The
Warren,” not far from the Maypole-Inn, which is itself a portion of the
estate. Reuben _is a widower_, with one child, a daughter, Emma. Besides
this daughter, there are living with him a gardener, a steward (whose
name is Rudge) and _two_ women servants, one of whom is the wife of
Rudge. On the night of the nineteenth of March, 1733, Rudge murders his
master for the sake of a large sum of money which he is known to have in
possession. During the struggle, Mr. Haredale grasps the cord of an
alarm-bell which hangs within his reach, but succeeds in sounding it
only once or twice, when it is severed by the knife of the ruffian, who
then, completing his bloody business, and securing the money, proceeds
to quit the chamber. While doing this, however, he is disconcerted by
meeting the gardener, whose pallid countenance evinces suspicion of the
deed committed. The murderer is thus forced to kill his fellow servant.
Having done so, the idea strikes him of transferring the burden of the
crime from himself. He dresses the corpse of the gardener in his own
clothes, puts upon its finger his own ring and in its pocket his own
watch—then drags it to a pond in the grounds, and throws it in. He now
returns to the house, and, disclosing all to his wife, requests her to
become a partner in his flight. Horror-stricken, she falls to the
ground. He attempts to raise her. She seizes his wrist, _staining her
hand with blood in the attempt_. She renounces him forever; yet promises
to conceal the crime. Alone, he flees the country. The next morning, Mr.
Haredale being found murdered, and the steward and gardener being both
missing, both are suspected. Mrs. Rudge leaves The Warren, and retires
to an obscure lodging in London (where she lives upon an annuity allowed
her by Haredale) having given birth, _on the very day after the murder_,
to a son, Barnaby Rudge, who proves an idiot, who bears upon his wrist a
red mark, and who is born possessed with a maniacal horror of blood.
Some months since the assassination having elapsed, what appears to be
the corpse of Rudge is discovered, and the outrage is attributed to the
gardener. Yet not universally:—for, as Geoffrey Haredale comes into
possession of the estate, there are not wanting suspicions (fomented by
Chester) of his own participation in the deed. This taint of suspicion,
acting upon his hereditary gloom, together with the natural grief and
horror of the atrocity, embitters the whole life of Haredale. He
secludes himself at The Warren, and acquires a monomaniac acerbity of
temper relieved only by love of his beautiful niece.
Time wears away. Twenty-two years pass by. The niece has ripened into
womanhood, and loves young Chester without the knowledge of her uncle or
the youth’s father. Hugh has grown a stalwart man—the type of man _the
animal_, as his father is of man the ultra-civilized. Rudge, the
murderer, returns, urged to his undoing by Fate. He appears at the
Maypole and inquires stealthily of the circumstances which have occurred
at The Warren in his absence. He proceeds to London, discovers the
dwelling of his wife, threatens her with the betrayal of her idiot son
into vice and extorts from her the bounty of Haredale. Revolting at such
appropriation of such means, the widow, with Barnaby, again seeks The
Warren, renounces the annuity, and, refusing to assign any reason for
her conduct, states her intention of quitting London forever, and of
burying herself in some obscure retreat—a retreat which she begs
Haredale not to attempt discovering. When he seeks her in London the
next day, she is gone; and there are no tidings, either of herself or of
Barnaby, _until the expiration of five years_—which bring the time up
to that of the Celebrated “No Popery” Riots of Lord George Gordon.
In the meanwhile, and immediately subsequent to the re-appearance of
Rudge; Haredale and the elder Chester, each heartily desirous of
preventing the union of Edward and Emma, have entered into a covenant,
the result of which is that, by means of treachery on the part of
Chester, permitted on that of Haredale, the lovers misunderstand each
other and are estranged. Joe, also, the son of the innkeeper, Willet,
having been coquetted with, to too great an extent, by Dolly Varden,
(the pretty daughter of one Gabriel Varden, a locksmith of Clerkenwell,
London) and having been otherwise mal-treated at home, enlists in his
Majesty’s army and is carried beyond seas, to America; not returning
until towards the close of the riots. Just before their commencement,
Rudge, in a midnight prowl about the scene of his atrocity, is
encountered by an individual who had been familiar with him in earlier
life, while living at The Warren. This individual, terrified at what he
supposes, very naturally, to be the ghost of the murdered Rudge, relates
his adventure to his companions at the Maypole, and John Willet conveys
the intelligence, forthwith, to Mr. Haredale. Connecting the apparition,
in his own mind, with the peculiar conduct of Mrs. Rudge, this gentleman
imbibes a suspicion, at once, of the true state of affairs. This
suspicion (which he mentions to no one) is, moreover, very strongly
confirmed by an occurrence happening to Varden, the locksmith, who,
visiting the woman late one night, finds her in communion of a nature
apparently most confidential, with a ruffian whom the locksmith knows to
be such, without knowing the man himself. Upon an attempt, on the part
of Varden, to seize this ruffian, he is thwarted by Mrs. R.; and upon
Haredale’s inquiring minutely into the personal appearance of the man,
he is found to accord with Rudge. We have already shown that the ruffian
was in fact Rudge himself. Acting upon the suspicion thus aroused,
Haredale watches, by night, alone, in the deserted house formerly
occupied by Mrs. R. in hope of here coming upon the murderer, and makes
other exertions with the view of arresting him; but all in vain.
It is, also, at the conclusion _of the five years_, that the hitherto
uninvaded retreat of Mrs. Rudge is disturbed by a message from her
husband, demanding money. He has discovered her abode by accident.
Giving him what she has at the time, she afterwards eludes him, and
hastens, with Barnaby, to bury herself in the crowd of London, until she
can find opportunity again to seek retreat in some more distant region
of England. But the riots have now begun. The idiot is beguiled into
joining the mob, and, becoming separated from his mother (who, growing
ill through grief, is borne to a hospital) meets with his old playmate
Hugh, and becomes with him a ringleader in the rebellion.
The riots proceed. A conspicuous part is borne in them by one Simon
Tappertit, a fantastic and conceited little apprentice of Varden’s, and
a sworn enemy to Joe Willet, who has rivalled him in the affection of
Dolly. A hangman, Dennis, is also very busy amid the mob. Lord George
Gordon, and his secretary, Gashford, with John Grueby, his servant,
appear, of course, upon the scene. Old Chester, who, during the five
years, has become Sir John, instigates Gashford, who has received
personal insult from Haredale, (a catholic and consequently obnoxious to
the mob) instigates Gashford to procure the burning of The Warren, and
to abduct Emma during the excitement ensuing. The mansion is burned,
(Hugh, who also fancies himself wronged by Haredale, being chief actor
in the outrage) and Miss H. carried off, in company with Dolly, who had
long lived with her, and whom Tappertit abducts upon his own
responsibility. Rudge, in the meantime, finding the eye of Haredale upon
him, (since he has become aware of the watch kept nightly at his
wife’s,) goaded by the dread of solitude, and fancying that his sole
chance of safety lies in joining the rioters, hurries upon their track
to the doomed Warren. He arrives too late—the mob have departed.
Skulking about the ruins, he is discovered by Haredale, and finally
captured, without a struggle, within the glowing walls of the very
chamber in which the deed was committed. He is conveyed to prison, where
he meets and recognises Barnaby, who had been captured as a rioter. The
mob assail and burn the jail. The father and son escape. Betrayed by
Dennis, both are again retaken, and Hugh shares their fate. In Newgate,
Dennis, through accident, discovers the parentage of Hugh, and an effort
is made in vain to interest Chester in behalf of his son. Finally,
Varden procures the pardon of Barnaby; but Hugh, Rudge and Dennis are
hung. At the eleventh hour, Joe returns from abroad with one arm. In
company with Edward Chester, he performs prodigies of valor (during the
last riots) on behalf of the government. The two, with Haredale and
Varden, rescue Emma and Dolly. A double marriage, of course, takes
place; for Dolly has repented her fine airs, and the prejudices of
Haredale are overcome. Having killed Chester in a duel, he quits England
forever, and ends his days in the seclusion of an Italian convent. Thus,
after summary disposal of the understrappers, ends the drama of “Barnaby
Rudge.”
We have given, as may well be supposed, but a very meagre outline of the
story, and we have given it in the simple or natural sequence. That is
to say, we have related the events, as nearly as might be, in the order
of their occurrence. But this order would by no means have suited the
purpose of the novelist, whose design has been to maintain the secret of
the murder, and the consequent mystery which encircles Rudge, and the
actions of his wife, until the catastrophe of his discovery by Haredale.
The _thesis_ of the novel may thus be regarded as based upon curiosity.
Every point is so arranged as to perplex the reader, and whet his desire
for elucidation:—for example, the first appearance of Rudge at the
Maypole; his questions; his persecution of Mrs. R.; the ghost seen by
the frequenter of the Maypole; and Haredale’s impressive conduct in
consequence. What _we_ have told, in the very beginning of our digest,
in regard to the shifting of the gardener’s dress, is sedulously kept
from the reader’s knowledge until he learns it from Rudge’s own
confession in jail. We say sedulously; for, _the intention once known_,
the _traces_ of the design can be found upon every page. There is an
amusing and exceedingly ingenious instance at page 145, where Solomon
Daisy describes his adventure with the ghost.
“It was a ghost—a spirit,” cried Daisy.
“Whose?” they all three asked together.
In the excess of his emotion (for he fell back trembling in his
chair and waved his hand as if entreating them to question him
no farther) _his answer was lost upon all_ but old John Willet,
who happened to be seated close beside him.
“Who!” cried Parkes and Tom Cobb—“Who was it?”
“Gentlemen,” said Mr. Willet, after a long pause, “you needn’t
ask. The likeness of a murdered man. This is the nineteenth of
March.”
A profound silence ensued.
The impression here skilfully conveyed is, that the ghost seen is that
of Reuben Haredale; and the mind of the not-too-acute reader is at once
averted from the true state of the case—from the murderer, Rudge,
living in the body.
Now there can be no question that, by such means as these, many points
which are comparatively insipid in the natural sequence of our digest,
and which would have been comparatively insipid even if given in full
detail in a natural sequence, are endued with the interest of mystery;
but neither can it be denied that a vast many more points are at the
same time deprived of all effect, and become null, through the
impossibility of comprehending them without the key. The author, who,
cognizant of his plot, writes with this cognizance continually operating
upon him, and thus _writes to himself_ in spite of himself, does not, of
course, feel that much of what is effective to his own informed
perception, must necessarily be lost upon his uninformed readers; and he
himself is never in condition, as regards his own work, to bring the
matter to test. But the reader may easily satisfy himself of the
validity of our objection. Let him _re-peruse_ “Barnaby Rudge,” and,
with a pre-comprehension of the mystery, these points of which we speak
break out in all directions like stars, and throw quadruple brilliance
over the narrative—a brilliance which a correct taste will at once
declare unprofitably sacrificed at the shrine of the keenest interest of
mere mystery.
The design of _mystery_, however, being once determined upon by an
author, it becomes imperative, first, that no undue or inartistical
means be employed to conceal the secret of the plot; and, secondly, that
the secret be well kept. Now, when, at page 16, we read that “the body
of _poor Mr. Rudge, the steward, was found_” months after the outrage,
&c. we see that Mr. Dickens has been guilty of no misdemeanor against
Art in stating what was not the fact; since the falsehood is put into
the mouth of Solomon Daisy, and given merely as the impression of this
individual and of the public. The writer has not asserted it in his own
person, but ingeniously conveyed an idea (false in itself, yet a belief
in which is necessary for the effect of the tale) by the mouth of one of
his characters. The case is different, however, when Mrs. Rudge is
repeatedly denominated “the widow.” It is the author who, himself,
frequently so terms her. This is disingenuous and inartistical:
accidentally so, of course. We speak of the matter merely by way of
illustrating our point, and as an oversight on the part of Mr. Dickens.
That the secret be well kept is obviously necessary. A failure to
preserve it until the proper moment of _dénouement_, throws all into
confusion, so far as regards the _effect_ intended. If the mystery leak
out, against the author’s will, his purposes are immediately at odds and
ends; for he proceeds upon the supposition that certain impressions _do_
exist, which do _not_ exist, in the mind of his readers. We are not
prepared to say, so positively as we could wish, whether, by the public
at large, the whole _mystery_ of the murder committed by Rudge, with the
identity of the Maypole ruffian with Rudge himself, was fathomed at any
period previous to the period intended, or, if so, whether at a period
so early as materially to interfere with the interest designed; but we
are forced, through sheer modesty, to suppose this the case; since, by
ourselves individually, the secret was distinctly understood immediately
upon the perusal of the story of Solomon Daisy, which occurs at the
seventh page of this volume of three hundred and twenty-three. In the
number of the “Philadelphia Saturday Evening Post,” for May the 1st,
1841, (the tale having then only begun) will be found a _prospective
notice_ of some length, in which we made use of the following words—
That Barnaby is the son of the murderer may not appear evident
to our readers—but we will explain. The person murdered is Mr.
Reuben Haredale. He was found assassinated in his bed-chamber.
His steward (Mr. Rudge, senior,) and his gardener (name not
mentioned) are missing. At first both are suspected. ‘Some
months afterward,’ here we use the words of the story—‘the
steward’s body, scarcely to be recognised but by his clothes,
and the watch and ring he wore—was found at the bottom of a
piece of water in the grounds, with a deep gash in the breast
where he had been stabbed by a knife. He was only partly
dressed; and all people agreed that he had been sitting up
reading in his own room, where there were many traces of blood,
and was suddenly fallen upon and killed, before his master.’
Now, be it observed, it is not the author himself who asserts
that _the steward’s body was found_; he has put the words in the
mouth of one of his characters. His design is to make it appear,
in the _dénouement_, that the steward, Rudge, first murdered the
gardener, then went to his master’s chamber, murdered _him_, was
interrupted by his (Rudge’s) wife, whom he seized and held _by
the wrist_, to prevent her giving the alarm—that he then, after
possessing himself of the booty desired, returned to the
gardener’s room, exchanged clothes with him, put upon the corpse
his own watch and ring, and secreted it where it was afterwards
discovered at so late a period that the features could not be
identified.
The differences between our pre-conceived ideas, as here stated, and the
actual facts of the story, will be found immaterial. The gardener was
murdered not before but after his master; and that Rudge’s wife seized
_him_ by the wrist, instead of his seizing _her_, has so much the air of
a mistake on the part of Mr. Dickens, that we can scarcely speak of our
own version as erroneous. The grasp of a murderer’s bloody hand on the
wrist of a woman _enceinte_, would have been more likely to produce the
effect described (and this every one will allow) than the grasp of the
hand of the woman upon the wrist of the assassin. We may therefore say
of our supposition as Talleyrand said of some cockney’s bad French—_que
s’il ne soit pas Français, assurément donc il le doit être_—that if we
did not rightly prophesy, yet, at least, our prophecy _should have been_
right.
We are informed in the Preface to “Barnaby Rudge” that “no account of
the Gordon Riots having been introduced into any work of fiction, and
the subject presenting very extraordinary and remarkable features,” our
author “was led to project this tale.” But for this distinct
announcement (for Mr. Dickens can scarcely have deceived himself) we
should have looked upon the Riots as altogether an afterthought. It is
evident that they have no necessary connection with the story. In our
digest, which carefully includes all _essentials_ of the plot, we have
dismissed the doings of the mob in a paragraph. The whole event of the
drama would have proceeded as well without as with them. They have even
the appearance of being _forcibly_ introduced. In our compendium above,
it will be seen that we emphasised several allusions to an interval of
_five years_. The action is brought up to a certain point. The train of
events is, so far, uninterrupted—nor is there any apparent need of
interruption—yet all the characters are now thrown forward for a period
of _five years_. And why? We ask in vain. It is not to bestow upon the
lovers a more decorous maturity of age—for this is the only possible
idea which suggests itself—Edward Chester is already eight-and-twenty,
and Emma Haredale would, in America at least, be upon the list of old
maids. No—there is no such reason; nor does there appear to be any one
more plausible than that, as it is now the year of our Lord 1775, an
advance of five years will bring the _dramatis personae_ up to a very
remarkable period, affording an admirable opportunity for their
display—the period, in short, of the “No Popery” riots. This was the
idea with which we were forcibly impressed in perusal, and which nothing
less than Mr. Dickens’ positive assurance to the contrary would have
been sufficient to eradicate.
It is, perhaps, but one of a thousand instances of the disadvantages,
both to the author and the public, of the present absurd fashion of
periodical novel-writing, that our author had not sufficiently
considered or determined upon _any_ particular plot when he began the
story now under review. In fact, we see, or fancy that we see, numerous
traces of indecision—traces which a dexterous supervision of the
complete work might have enabled him to erase. We have already spoken of
the intermission of a lustrum. The opening speeches of old Chester are
by far too _truly_ gentlemanly for his subsequent character. The wife of
Varden, also, is too wholesale a shrew to be converted into the quiet
wife—the original design was to punish her. At page 16, we read
thus—Solomon Daisy is telling his story:
“I put as good a face upon it as I could, and, muffling myself
up, started out with a lighted lantern in one hand and the key
of the church in the other”—at this point of the narrative, the
dress of the strange man rustled as if he had turned to hear
more distinctly.
Here the design is to call the reader’s attention to a _point_ in the
tale; but no subsequent explanation is made. Again, a few lines below—
“The houses were all shut up, and the folks in doors, and
perhaps there is only one man in the world who knows how dark it
really was.”
Here the intention is still more evident, but there is no result. Again,
at page 54, the idiot draws Mr. Chester to the window, and directs his
attention to the clothes hanging upon the lines in the yard—
“Look down,” he said softly; “do you mark how they whisper in
each other’s ears, then dance and leap to make believe they are
in sport? Do you see how they stop for a moment, when they think
there is no one looking, and mutter among themselves again; and
then how they roll and gambol, delighted with the mischief
they’ve been plotting? Look at ’em now! See how they whirl and
plunge. And now they stop again, and whisper cautiously
together—little thinking, mind, how often I have lain upon the
ground and watched them. I say—what is it that they plot and
hatch? Do you know?”
Upon perusal of these ravings we, at once, supposed them to have
allusion to some _real_ plotting; and even now we cannot force ourselves
to believe them not so intended. They suggested the opinion that
Haredale himself would be implicated in the murder, and that the
counsellings alluded to might be those of that gentleman with Rudge. It
is by no means impossible that some such conception wavered in the mind
of the author. At page 32 we have a confirmation of our idea, when
Varden endeavors to arrest the murderer in the house of his wife—
“Come back—come back!” exclaimed the woman, wrestling with and
clasping him. “Do not touch him on your life. _He carries other
lives beside his own._”
The _dénouement_ fails to account for this exclamation.
In the beginning of the story much emphasis is placed upon the _two_
female servants of Haredale, and upon his journey to and from London, as
well as upon his wife. We have merely said, in our digest, that he was a
widower, italicizing the remark. All these other points are, in fact,
singularly irrelevant, in the supposition that the original design has
not undergone modification.
Again, at page 57, when Haredale talks of “his dismantled and beggared
hearth,” we cannot help fancying that the author had in view some
different wrong, or series of wrongs, perpetrated by Chester, than any
which appear in the end. This gentleman, too, takes extreme and frequent
pains to acquire dominion over the rough Hugh—this matter is
particularly insisted upon by the novelist—we look, of course, for some
important result—but the filching of a letter is nearly all that is
accomplished. That Barnaby’s delight in the desperate scenes of the
rebellion, is inconsistent with his horror of blood, will strike every
reader; and this inconsistency seems to be the consequence of the
_afterthought_ upon which we have already commented. In fact the title
of the work, the elaborate and pointed manner of the commencement, the
impressive description of The Warren, and especially of Mrs. Rudge, go
far to show that Mr. Dickens has really deceived himself—that the soul
of the plot, as originally conceived, was the murder of Haredale with
the subsequent discovery of the murderer in Rudge—but that this idea
was afterwards abandoned, or rather suffered to be merged in that of the
Popish Riots. The result has been most unfavorable. That which, of
itself would have proved highly effective, has been rendered nearly null
by its situation. In the multitudinous outrage and horror of the
Rebellion, the _one_ atrocity is utterly whelmed and extinguished.
The reasons of this deflection from the first purpose appear to us
self-evident. One of them we have already mentioned. The other is that
our author discovered, when too late, that _he had anticipated, and thus
rendered valueless, his chief effect_. This will be readily understood.
The particulars of the assassination being withheld, the strength of the
narrator is put forth, in the beginning of the story, to _whet
curiosity_ in respect to these particulars; and, so far, he is but in
proper pursuance of his main design. But from this intention he
unwittingly passes into the error of _exaggerating anticipation_. And
error though it be, it is an error wrought with consummate skill. What,
for example, could more vividly enhance our impression of the unknown
horror enacted, than the deep and enduring gloom of Haredale—than the
idiot’s inborn awe of blood—or, especially, than the expression of
countenance so imaginatively attributed to Mrs. Rudge—“the capacity for
expressing terror—something only dimly seen, but never absent for a
moment—the shadow of some look to which an instant of intense and most
unutterable horror only could have given rise?” But it is a condition of
the human fancy that the promises of such words are irredeemable. In the
notice before mentioned we thus spoke upon this topic—
This is a conception admirably adapted to whet curiosity in
respect to the character of that event which is hinted at as
forming the basis of the story. But this observation should not
fail to be made—that the anticipation must surpass the reality;
that no matter how terrific be the circumstances which, in the
_dénouement_, shall appear to have occasioned the expression of
countenance worn habitually by Mrs. Rudge, still they will not
be able to satisfy the mind of the reader. He will surely be
disappointed. The skilful intimation of horror held out by the
artist, produces an effect which will deprive his conclusion of
all. These intimations—these dark hints of some uncertain
evil—are often rhetorically praised as effective—but are only
justly so praised where there is _no dénouement_ whatever—where
the reader’s imagination is left to clear up the mystery for
itself—and this is not the design of Mr. Dickens.
And, in fact, our author was not long in seeing his precipitancy. He had
placed himself in a dilemma from which even his high genius could not
extricate him. He at once shifts the main interest—and in truth we do
not see what better he could have done. The reader’s attention becomes
absorbed in the riots, and he fails to observe that what should have
been the true catastrophe of the novel, is exceedingly feeble and
ineffective.
A few cursory remarks:—Mr. Dickens fails peculiarly in _pure_
narration. See, for example, page 296, where the connection of Hugh and
Chester is detailed by Varden. See also in “The Curiosity-Shop,” where,
when the result is fully known, so many words are occupied in explaining
the relationship of the brothers.
The effect of the present narrative might have been materially increased
by confining the action within the limits of London. The “Notre Dame” of
Hugo affords a fine example of the force which can be gained by
concentration, or unity of place. The unity of time is also sadly
neglected, to no purpose, in “Barnaby Rudge.”
That Rudge should so long and so deeply feel the sting of conscience is
inconsistent with his brutality.
On page 15 the interval elapsing between the murder and Rudge’s return,
is variously stated at twenty-two and twenty-four years.
It may be asked why the inmates of The Warren failed to hear the
alarm-bell which was heard by Solomon Daisy.
The idea of persecution by being tracked, as by bloodhounds, from one
spot of quietude to another is a favorite one with Mr. Dickens. Its
effect cannot be denied.
The stain upon Barnaby’s wrist, caused by fright in the mother at so
late a period of gestation as one day before mature parturition, is
shockingly at war with all medical experience.
When Rudge, escaped from prison, unshackled, with money at command, is
in agony at his wife’s refusal to perjure herself for his salvation—is
it not _queer_ that he should demand any other salvation than lay in his
heels?
Some of the conclusions of chapters—see pages 40 and 100—seem to have
been written for the mere purpose of illustrating tail-pieces.
The leading idiosyncrasy of Mr. Dickens’ remarkable humor, is to be
found in his _translating the language of gesture, or action, or tone_.
For example—
“The cronies nodded to each other, and Mr. Parkes remarked in an
under tone, shaking his head meanwhile, _as who should say ‘let
no man contradict me, for I won’t believe him,’_ that Willet was
in amazing force to-night.”
The riots form a series of vivid pictures never surpassed.
At page 17, the road between London and the Maypole is described as a
horribly rough and dangerous, and at page 97, as an uncommonly smooth
and convenient one.
At page 116, how comes Chester in possession of the key of Mrs. Rudge’s
vacated house?
Mr. Dickens’ English is usually pure. His most remarkable error is that
of employing the adverb “directly” in the sense of “as soon as.” For
example—“Directly he arrived, Rudge said, &c.” Bulwer is uniformly
guilty of the same blunder.
It is observable that so original a stylist as our author should
occasionally lapse into a gross imitation of what, itself, is a gross
imitation. We mean the manner of Lamb—a manner based in the Latin
construction. For example—
In summer time its pumps suggest to thirsty idlers springs
cooler and more sparkling and deeper than other wells; and as
they trace the spillings of full pitchers on the heated ground,
they snuff the freshness, and, sighing, cast sad looks towards
the Thames, and think of baths and boats, and saunter on,
despondent.
The wood-cut _designs_ which accompany the edition before us are
occasionally good. The copper engravings are pitiably ill-conceived and
ill-drawn; and not only this, but are in broad contradiction of the
wood-designs and text.
There are many _coincidences_ wrought into the narrative—those, for
example, which relate to the nineteenth of March; the dream of Barnaby,
respecting his father, at the very period when his father is actually in
the house; and the dream of Haredale previous to his final meeting with
Chester. These things are meant to _insinuate_ a fatality which, very
properly, is not expressed in plain terms—but it is questionable
whether the story derives more, in ideality, from their introduction,
than it might have gained of verisimilitude from their omission.
The _dramatis personae_ sustain the high fame of Mr. Dickens as a
delineator of character. Miggs, the disconsolate handmaiden of Varden;
Tappertit, his chivalrous apprentice; Mrs. Varden, herself; and Dennis,
a hangman—may be regarded as original caricatures, of the highest merit
as such. Their traits are founded in acute observation of nature, but
are exaggerated to the utmost admissible extent. Miss Haredale and
Edward Chester are common-places—no effort has been made in their
behalf. Joe Willet is a naturally drawn country youth. Stagg is a mere
make-weight. Gashford and Gordon are truthfully copied. Dolly Varden is
truth itself. Haredale, Rudge and Mrs. Rudge are impressive only through
the circumstances which surround them. Sir John Chester is, of course,
not original, but is a vast improvement upon all his predecessors—his
heartlessness is rendered somewhat too amusing, and his end too much
that of a man of honor. Hugh is a noble conception. His fierce
exultation in his animal powers; his subserviency to the smooth Chester;
his mirthful contempt and patronage of Tappertit, and his _brutal_ yet
firm courage in the hour of death—form a picture to be set in diamonds.
Old Willet is not surpassed by any character even among those of
Dickens. He is nature itself—yet a step farther would have placed him
in the class of caricatures. His combined conceit and obtusity are
indescribably droll, and his peculiar misdirected energy when aroused,
is one of the most exquisite touches in all humorous painting. We shall
never forget how heartily we laughed at his shaking Solomon Daisy and
threatening to put him behind the fire, because the unfortunate little
man was too much frightened to articulate. Varden is one of those free,
jovial, honest fellows at charity with all mankind, whom our author is
so fond of depicting. And lastly, Barnaby, the hero of the tale—in him
we have been somewhat disappointed. We have already said that his
delight in the atrocities of the Rebellion is at variance with his
horror of blood. But this horror of blood is _inconsequential_; and of
this we complain. Strongly insisted upon in the beginning of the
narrative, it produces no adequate result. And here how fine an
opportunity has Mr. Dickens missed! The conviction of the assassin,
after the lapse of twenty-two years, might easily have been brought
about through his son’s mysterious awe of blood—_an awe created in the
unborn by the assassination itself_—and this would have been one of the
finest possible embodiments of the idea which we are accustomed to
attach to “poetical justice.” The raven, too, intensely amusing as it
is, might have been made, more than we now see it, a portion of the
conception of the fantastic Barnaby. Its croakings might have been
_prophetically_ heard in the course of the drama. Its character might
have performed, in regard to that of the idiot, much the same part as
does, in music, the accompaniment in respect to the air. Each might have
been distinct. Each might have differed remarkably from the other. Yet
between them there might have been wrought an analogical resemblance,
and, although each might have existed apart, they might have formed
together a whole which would have been imperfect in the absence of
either.
From what we have here said—and, perhaps, said without due
deliberation—(for alas! the hurried duties of the journalist preclude
it) there will not be wanting those who will accuse us of a mad design
to detract from the pure fame of the novelist. But to such we merely say
in the language of heraldry “ye should wear a plain point sanguine in
your arms.” If this be understood, well; if not, well again. There lives
no man feeling a deeper reverence for genius than ourself. If we have
not dwelt so especially upon the high merits as upon the trivial defects
of “Barnaby Rudge” we have already given our reasons for the omission,
and these reasons will be sufficiently understood by all whom we care to
understand them. The work before us is not, we think, equal to the tale
which immediately preceded it; but there are few—very few others to
which we consider it inferior. Our chief objection has not, perhaps,
been so distinctly stated as we could wish. That this fiction, or indeed
that any fiction written by Mr. Dickens, should be based in the
excitement and maintenance of curiosity we look upon as a misconception,
on the part of the writer, of his own very great yet very peculiar
powers. He has done this thing well, to be sure—he would do anything
well in comparison with the herd of his contemporaries—but he has not
done it so thoroughly well as his high and just reputation would demand.
We think that the whole book has been an effort to him—solely through
the nature of its design. He has been smitten with an untimely desire
for a novel path. The idiosyncrasy of his intellect would lead him,
naturally, into the most fluent and simple style of narration. In tales
of ordinary sequence he may and will long reign triumphant. He has a
_talent_ for all things, but no positive _genius_ for _adaptation_, and
still less for that metaphysical art in which the souls of all
_mysteries_ lie. “Caleb Williams” is a far less noble work than “The Old
Curiosity-Shop;” but Mr. Dickens could no more have constructed the one
than Mr. Godwin could have dreamed of the other.
* * * * *
_Wakondah; The Master of Life. A Poem. George L. Curry and Co.:
New York._
“Wakondah” is the composition of Mr. Cornelius Mathews, one of the
editors of the Monthly Magazine, “Arcturus.” In the December number of
the journal, the poem was originally set forth by its author, very much
“_avec l’air d’un homme qui sauve sa patrie_.” To be sure, it was not
what is usually termed the _leading_ article of the month. It did not
occupy that post of honor which, hitherto, has been so modestly filled
by “Puffer Hopkins.” But it took precedence of some exceedingly
beautiful stanzas by Professor Longfellow, and stood second only to a
very serious account of a supper which, however well it might have
suited the taste of an Ariel, would scarcely have feasted the Anakim, or
satisfied the appetite of a Grandgousier. The supper was, or might have
been, a good thing. The poem which succeeded it _is not_; nor can we
imagine what has induced Messrs. Curry & Co. to be at the trouble of its
republication. We are vexed with these gentlemen for having thrust this
affair the second time before us. They have placed us in a predicament
we dislike. In the pages of “Arcturus” the poem did not come necessarily
under the eye of the Magazine critic. There is a tacitly-understood
courtesy about these matters—a courtesy upon which we need not comment.
The contributed papers in any one journal of the class of “Arcturus” are
not considered as _debateable_ by any one other. General propositions,
under the editorial head, are rightly made the subject of discussion;
but in speaking of “Wakondah,” for example, in the pages of our own
Magazine, we should have felt as if _making an occasion_. Now, upon our
first perusal of the poem in question, we were both astonished and
grieved that we could say, honestly, very little in its
praise:—astonished, for by some means, not just now altogether
intelligible to ourselves, we had become imbued with the idea of high
poetical talent in Mr. Mathews:—grieved, because, under the
circumstances of his position as editor of one of the _very_ best
journals in the country, we had been sincerely anxious to think well of
his abilities. Moreover, we felt that to _speak ill_ of them, under any
circumstances whatever, would be to subject ourselves to the charge of
envy or jealousy, on the part of those who do not personally know us.
We, therefore, rejoiced that “Wakondah” was not a topic we were called
upon to discuss. But the poem is republished, and placed upon our table,
and these very “circumstances of position,” which restrained us in the
first place, render it a positive duty that we speak distinctly in the
second.
And very distinctly shall we speak. In fact this effusion is a dilemma
whose horns _goad_ us into frankness and candor—“_c’est un malheur_,”
to use the words of Victor Hugo, “_d’où on ne pourrait se tirer par des
periphrases, par des quemadmodums et des verumenimveros_.” If we mention
it at all, we are _forced_ to employ the language of that region where,
as Addison has it, “they sell the best fish and speak the plainest
English.” “Wakondah,” then, from beginning to end, is trash. With the
trivial exceptions which we shall designate, it has _no_ merit whatever;
while its faults, more numerous than the leaves of Valombrosa, are of
that rampant class which, if any schoolboy _could_ be found so
uninformed as to commit them, any schoolboy should be remorselessly
flogged for committing.
The story, or as the epics have it, the argument, although brief, is by
no means particularly easy of comprehension. The design seems to be
based upon a passage in Mr. Irving’s “Astoria.” He tells us that the
Indians who inhabit the Chippewyan range of mountains, call it the
“Crest of the World,” and “think that Wakondah, or the Master of Life,
as they designate the Supreme Being, has his residence among these
aerial heights.” Upon this hint Mr. Mathews has proceeded. He introduces
us to Wakondah standing in person upon a mountain-top. He describes his
appearance, and thinks that a Chinook would be frightened to behold it.
He causes the “Master of Life” to make a speech, which is addressed,
generally, to things at large, and particularly to the neighboring
Woods, Cataracts, Rivers, Pinnacles, Steeps, and Lakes—not to mention
an Earthquake. But all these (and we think, judiciously) turn a deaf ear
to the oration, which, to be plain, is scarcely equal to a second-rate
Piankitank stump speech. In fact, it is a bare-faced attempt at animal
magnetism, and the mountains, &c., do no more than show its potency in
resigning themselves to sleep, as they do.