entire deliberation, and know quite well what it is we assert. We do not
mean to say that it is perfect, as a whole—this could not well have
been the case under the circumstances of its composition. But we know
that, in all the higher elements which go to make up literary greatness,
it is supremely excellent. We think, for instance, that the introduction
of Nelly’s brother (and here we address those who have read the work) is
supererogatory—that the character of Quilp would have been more in
keeping had he been confined to petty and grotesque acts of malice—that
his death should have been made the _immediate_ consequence of his
attempt at revenge upon Kit; and that after matters had been put fairly
in train for this poetical justice, he should not have perished by an
accident inconsequential upon his villany. We think, too, that there is
an air of _ultra_-accident in the finally discovered relationship
between Kit’s master and the bachelor of the old church—that the
sneering politeness put into the mouth of Quilp, with his manner of
commencing a question which he wishes answered in the affirmative, with
an affirmative interrogatory, instead of the ordinary negative one—are
fashions borrowed from the author’s own Fagin—that he has repeated
himself in many other instances—that the practical tricks and love of
mischief of the dwarf’s boy are too nearly consonant with the traits of
the master—that so much of the propensities of Swiveller as relate to
his inapposite appropriation of odds and ends of verse, is stolen from
the generic loafer of our fellow-townsman, Neal—and that the writer has
suffered the overflowing kindness of his own bosom to mislead him in a
very important point of art, when he endows so many of his _dramatis
personæ_ with a warmth of feeling so very rare in reality. Above all, we
acknowledge that the death of Nelly is excessively painful—that it
leaves a most distressing oppression of spirit upon the reader—and
should, therefore, have been avoided.
But when we come to speak of the excellences of the tale these defects
appear really insignificant. It embodies more _originality_ in every
point, but in character especially, than any single work within our
knowledge. There is the grandfather—a truly profound conception; the
gentle and lovely Nelly—we have discoursed of her before; Quilp, with
mouth like that of the panting dog—(a bold idea which the engraver has
neglected to embody) with his hilarious antics, his cowardice, and his
very petty and spoilt-child-like malevolence; Dick Swiveller, that
prince of good-hearted, good-for-nothing, lazy, luxurious, poetical,
brave, romantically generous, gallant, affectionate, and not
over-and-above honest, “glorious Apollos;” the marchioness, his bride;
Tom Codlin and his partner; Miss Sally Brass, that “fine fellow;” the
pony that had an opinion of its own; the boy that stood upon his head;
the sexton; the man at the forge; not forgetting the dancing dogs and
baby Nubbles. There are other admirably drawn characters—but we note
these for their remarkable originality, as well as for their wonderful
keeping, and the glowing colors in which they are painted. We have heard
some of them called caricatures—but the charge is grossly ill-founded.
No critical principle is more firmly based in reason than that a certain
amount of exaggeration is essential to the proper depicting of truth
itself. We do not paint an object to be true, but to appear true to the
beholder. Were we to copy nature with accuracy the object copied would
seem unnatural. The columns of the Greek temples, which convey the idea
of absolute proportion, are very considerably thicker just beneath the
capital than at the base. We regret that we have not left ourselves
space in which to examine this whole question as it deserves. We must
content ourselves with saying that caricature seldom exists (unless in
so gross a form as to disgust at once) where the component parts are _in
keeping_; and that the laugh excited by it, in any case, is radically
distinct from that induced by a properly artistical _incongruity_—the
source of all mirth. Were these creations of Mr. Dickens really
caricatures they would not live in public estimation beyond the hour of
their first survey. We regard them as _creations_—(that is to say as
original combinations of character) only not all of the highest order,
because the elements employed are not always of the highest. In the
instances of Nelly, the grandfather, the Sexton, and the man of the
furnace, the force of the creative intellect could scarcely have been
engaged with nobler material, and the result is that these personages
belong to the most august regions of the _Ideal_.
In truth, the great feature of the “Curiosity Shop” is its chaste,
vigorous, and glorious _imagination_. This is the one charm, all potent,
which alone would suffice to compensate for a world more of error than
Mr. Dickens ever committed. It is not only seen in the conception, and
general handling of the story, or in the invention of character; but it
pervades every sentence of the book. We recognise its prodigious
influence in every inspired word. It is this which induces the reader
who is at all ideal, to pause frequently, to re-read the occasionally
quaint phrases, to muse in uncontrollable delight over thoughts which,
while he wonders he has never hit upon them before, he yet admits that
he never has encountered. In fact it is the wand of the enchanter.
Had we room to particularise, we would mention as points evincing most
distinctly the ideality of the “Curiosity Shop”—the picture of the shop
itself—the newly-born desire of the worldly old man for the peace of
green fields—his whole character and conduct, in short—the
school-master, with his desolate fortunes, seeking affection in little
children—the haunts of Quilp among the wharf-rats—the tinkering of the
Punch-men among the tombs—the glorious scene where the man of the forge
sits poring, at deep midnight, into that dread fire—again the whole
conception of this character; and, last and greatest, the stealthy
approach of Nell to her death—her gradual sinking away on the journey
to the village, so skilfully indicated rather than described—her
pensive and prescient meditation—the fit of strange musing which came
over her when the house _in which she was to die_ first broke upon her
sight—the description of this house, of the old church, and of the
churchyard—every thing in rigid consonance with the one impression to
be conveyed—that deep meaningless well—the comments of the Sexton upon
death, and upon his own secure life—this whole world of mournful yet
peaceful idea merging, at length, into the decease of the child Nelly,
and the uncomprehending despair of the grandfather. These concluding
scenes are so drawn that human language, urged by human thought, could
go no farther in the excitement of human feelings. And the pathos is of
that best order which is relieved, in great measure, by ideality. Here
the book has never been equalled,—never approached except in one
instance, and that is in the case of the “Undine” of De La Motte Fouqué.
The imagination is perhaps as great in this latter work, but the pathos,
although truly beautiful and deep, fails of much of its effect through
the material from which it is wrought. The chief character, being
endowed with purely fanciful attributes, cannot command our full
sympathies, as can a simple denizen of earth. In saying, a page or so
above, that the death of the child left too painful an impression, and
should therefore have been avoided, we must, of course, be understood as
referring to the work as a whole, and in respect to its general
appreciation and popularity. The death, as recorded, is, we repeat, of
the highest order of literary excellence—yet while none can deny this
fact, there are few who will be willing to read the concluding passages
a second time.
Upon the whole we think the “Curiosity Shop” very much the best of the
works of Mr. Dickens. It is scarcely possible to speak of it too well.
It is in all respects a tale which will secure for its author the
enthusiastic admiration of every man of genius.
The edition before us is handsomely printed, on excellent paper. The
designs by Cattermole and Browne are many of them excellent—some of
them outrageously bad. Of course it is difficult for us to say how far
the American engraver is in fault. In conclusion, we must enter our
solemn protest against the final page full of little angels in smock
frocks, or dimity chemises.
* * * * *
_“Writings of Charles Sprague.” Now first collected. Charles S.
Francis, New York._
In the “publisher’s preface” to this volume (which is a handsome octavo)
we are told that it has been printed partly with a view of anticipating
a similar design from another quarter—“one which was not likely to be
accomplished in a manner satisfactory to the friends of the author”—and
also that Mr. S. has done “nothing to promote” the present publication,
which he has “only not forbidden.” About the whole of this prolegomena
there is much of unnecessary rigmarole, not to say of superfluous
humbug. If the facts are as stated, and Mr. Francis has really made
himself so busy as to force the gentleman into press, will I nill I; we
can only say that he has been guilty of a singular piece of
impertinence. But if Mr. Sprague, on the other hand, was privy and a
party to the issuing of the book (as we believe he was, and as the
preface intimates he was not) it may then be remarked that since the
poet of the “Shakspeare Ode” is not ashamed of his efforts, and has no
reason to be ashamed of them, it is but a weak affectation to
counterfeit a modesty which he does not feel, and to sneak forth into
the light of the public eye, wrapped up in that flimsiest of all veils,
the veil of a “publisher’s preface.”
The volume embraces, we believe, all the best compositions of Mr.
Sprague—certainly all the best of his poems. These latter have had a
wide circulation, and are well known. Some of the pieces have attained a
reputation—in some measure deserved—for example “The Shakspeare Ode,”
“The Winged Worshippers,” the “Lines on the Death of M. S. C.,” and “I
See Thee Still.” Others have acquired a notoriety which is any thing but
desirable fame. We speak of the Prize odes for Festivals and Opening
Nights of new theatres—a species of literature almost beneath contempt,
and whose _sine quâ non_ of success is pedantic common-place. Who
believes that a really good poem would even be glanced at a second time
by any one of a committee appointed to decide upon such things as
“Opening Addresses?”
The “Shakspeare Ode” of Mr. Sprague is, after all, scarcely an exception
to our general rule in this case. We may, perhaps, modify matters so as
to admit that while all prize articles are bad _ex officio_, the
Shakspeare Ode is the best of them. It carries the essential error to
the height of its perfection—that is precisely what we mean. Farther
than this no man should go. We allow that public opinion is here against
us, and that the poem in question is generally considered as a
“brilliant production.” Public opinion, however, is a certain intangible
something of which we have no opinion at all. By this we mean what is
_called_ public opinion; for the true unbiased judgment of the majority
is a different thing, but can never be accurately ascertained. If it
could, it would nearly always be found in accordance with critical
decision. We must keep in mind the distinction when we read the words of
Chamfort. “_Il y a à parier_,” says he, “_que toute idée publique, toute
convention recue, est une sottise; car elle a convenue au plus grand
nombre_.”
In fact all that a just criticism can say in favor of this Ode, is that
its versification is of the highest order of excellence (it includes
finer lines and even finer entire paragraphs than are to be found
elsewhere) and that its imagery is scrupulously accurate and
well-sustained:—its imagery such as it is. What indeed can be more
outrageously absurd than an obstinate persistence, at this epoch, in the
mawkish allegory of ancient theology—a thing, which in its origin, and
under the best circumstances, never had—never _could_ have had, from
its very nature, the slightest effect or force, beyond that of an inane
assent to its ingenuity. We say nothing of the imitation of Collins’
“Ode to the Passions”—this is too obvious to need a word of comment.
“Curiosity,” the longest poem in the volume is entitled just to that
amount of praise which we have awarded to the “Shakspeare Ode”—while
its defects (of a similar character with those upon which we have
commented) are scarcely so glaring. Its versification is superb—nothing
could be better. Its thoughts are tersely put forth. The style is
pungently epigrammatic. Upon the whole, it is fully as good a poem as
Pope could have written, upon the same subject, in his finest hour of
inspiration. We must bear in mind one important distinction, however.
With Pope the ideas and the management of the piece would have been
original—with Mr. Sprague they are Pope’s. We will end our comments
upon “Curiosity” with the general remark that didactic subjects are
utterly _beyond_, or rather beneath the province of true poesy.
The “Lines on the Death of M. S. C.” are distinguished by all the minor
beauties for which Mr. S. is so remarkable, while they abound in merit
of a better, although still not of the highest order. They are pathetic
and simple—but evince little ideality.
“The Winged Worshippers” is, beyond question, a beautiful little poem,
and relieves us from a distressing doubt we had begun to entertain—a
doubt whether we should not, after all, be forced to look upon Mr.
Sprague as merely a well-educated poetaster, of what is (satirically?)
called _classical_ taste, of accurate ear, and of sound _negative_
judgment.
* * * * *
_“The Sovreignty of Mind.” A Poem delivered before the
Philomathæan Society of Pennsylvania College, February 16, 1841.
By John N. McJilton. Joseph N. Lewis, Baltimore._
Mr. McJilton is a gentleman for whose talents we have much respect—far
more than for his performances. Indeed, while there is indication of
genius in almost every thing he writes, he has yet written very little
worth reading. We remember a short poem from his pen, first published in
the “Casket,” and entitled “Serenade,” which was truly beautiful—but
beyond this we can call to mind none of his compositions which, as a
whole, are even tolerable. There are always fine imaginative
passages:—but their merit is scarcely discernible through the clouds of
verbiage, false imagery, bad grammar, and worse versification in which
they are enveloped.
We are grieved to see Mr. McJilton occupied in “delivering” poems to
order before Philomathæan societies. It is a _business_ in which no man
of talent should be employed—in which no man of genius could hope to
succeed. As for The “Sovreignty of Mind” it is a hackneyed subject, and
he has handled it in a hackneyed manner. It has some glowing
paragraphs—but abounds in all the worst faults of the author. We do not
feel justified in speaking of it at greater length.
* * * * *
Notices of “Charles O’Malley, vol. 1;” “The Dowager;” “Combe’s tour
through the U. States;” “Ranke’s History of the Popes;” “Earle’s visit
to thirteen Insane Asylums;” “The Quadroone,” and other works, have been
crowded out.
* * * * *
[Illustration: LADIES OF QUEEN VICTORIA’S COURT, CORRECT LIKENESSES.
_From the London World of Fashion._]
* * * * *
Transcriber’s Notes:
Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic
spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious punctuation and
typesetting errors have been corrected without note. A cover was
created for this ebook and is placed in the public domain.
[End of _Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XVIII, No. 5, May 1841_, George R.
Graham, Editor]