The Dickensian - Page 2

outblazing the sun,
and more deafening than the sea. But behind--out of earshot
of this uproar--there are lanes so narrow that they seem
like secret entrances to some hidden place of repose.
There are squares so brimful of silence that to plunge into one
of them is like plunging into a pool. In these places the man
and I paced up and down talking about Dickens, or, rather,
doing what all true Dickensians do, telling each other verbatim
long passages which both of us knew quite well already.
We were really in the atmosphere of the older England.
Fishermen passed us who might well have been characters
like Peggotty; we went into a musty curiosity shop and
bought pipe-stoppers carved into figures from Pickwick.
The evening was settling down between all the buildings
with that slow gold that seems to soak everything when we went
into the church.

In the growing darkness of the church, my eye caught the coloured
windows which on that clear golden evening were flaming with all the
passionate heraldry of the most fierce and ecstatic of Christian arts.
At length I said to my companion:

"Do you see that angel over there? I think it must be meant
for the angel at the sepulchre."

He saw that I was somewhat singularly moved, and he raised his eyebrows.

"I daresay," he said. "What is there odd about that?"

After a pause I said, "Do you remember what the angel at
the sepulchre said?"

"Not particularly," he answered; "but where are you off
to in such a hurry?"

I walked him rapidly out of the still square, past the
fishermen's almshouses, towards the coast, he still inquiring
indignantly where I was going.

"I am going," I said, "to put pennies in automatic machines
on the beach. I am going to listen to the niggers. I am going
to have my photograph taken. I am going to drink ginger-beer
out of its original bottle. I will buy some picture postcards.
I do want a boat. I am ready to listen to a concertina,
and but for the defects of my education should be ready to play it.
I am willing to ride on a donkey; that is, if the donkey is willing.
I am willing to be a donkey; for all this was commanded me
by the angel in the stained-glass window."

"I really think," said the Dickensian, "that I had better put
you in charge of your relations."

"Sir," I answered, "there are certain writers to whom humanity
owes much, whose talent is yet of so shy or delicate or retrospective
a type that we do well to link it with certain quaint places
or certain perishing associations. It would not be unnatural
to look for the spirit of Horace Walpole at Strawberry