II. To Charles Dickens

Sir,--It has been said that every man is born a Platonist or an Aristotelian,
though the enormous majority of us, to be sure, live and die without being
conscious of any invidious philosophic partiality whatever. With more truth
(though that does not imply very much) every Englishman who reads may be said
to be a partisan of yourself or of Mr. Thackeray. Why should there be any
partisanship in the matter; and why, having two such good things as your
novels and those of your contemporary, should we not be silently happy in the
possession? Well, men are made so, and must needs fight and argue over their
tastes in enjoyment. For myself, I may say that in this matter I am what the
Americans do not call a 'Mugwump,' what English politicians dub a 'superior
person'--that is, I take no side, and attempt to enjoy the best of both.

It must be owned that this attitude is sometimes made a little difficult by
the vigour of your special devotees. They have ceased, indeed, thank Heaven!
to imitate you; and even in 'descriptive articles' the touch of Mr. Gigadibs,
of him whom 'we almost took for the true Dickens,' has disappeared. The young
lions of the Press no longer mimic your less admirable mannerisms--do not
strain so much after fantastic comparisons, do not (in your manner and Mr.
Carlyle's) give people nick-names derived from their teeth, or their
complexion; and, generally, we are spared second-hand copies of all that in
your style was least to be commended. But, though improved by lapse of time in
this respect, your devotees still put on little conscious airs of virtue,
robust manliness, and so forth, which would have irritated you very much, and
there survive some press men who seem to have read you a little (especially
your later works), and never to have read anything else. Now familiarity with
the pages of 'Our Mutual Friend'and 'Dombey and Son' does not precisely
constitute a liberal education, and the assumption that it does is apt (quite
unreasonably) to prejudice people against the greatest comic genius of modern
times.

On the other hand, Time is at last beginning to sift the true admirers of
Dickens from the false. Yours, Sir, in the best sense of the word, is a
popular success, a popular reputation. For example, I know that, in a remote
and even Pictish part of this kingdom, a rural household, humble and under the
shadow of a sorrow inevitably approaching, has found in 'David Copperfield'
oblivion of winter, of sorrow, and of sickness. On the other hand, people are
now picking up heart to say that 'they cannot read Dickens,' and that they
particularly detest 'Pickwick.' I believe it was young ladies who first had
the courage of their convictions in this respect. 'Tout sied aux belles,' and
the fair, in the