parts
of its fulfilment remind us, alas! of Harrison Ainsworth. It is a very
fine romantic historical novel; Scott would have been proud of it. But
it is still so far different from the general work of Dickens that it is
permissible to wonder how far Dickens was proud of it. The book,
effective as it is, is almost entirely devoted to dealings with a
certain artistic element, which (in its mere isolation) Dickens did not
commonly affect; an element which many men of infinitely less genius
have often seemed to affect more successfully; I mean the element of the
picturesque.

It is the custom in many quarters to speak somewhat sneeringly of that
element which is broadly called the picturesque. It is always felt to be
an inferior, a vulgar, and even an artificial form of art. Yet two
things may be remarked about it. The first is that, with few
exceptions, the greatest literary artists have been not only
particularly clever at the picturesque, but particularly fond of it.
Shakespeare, for instance, delighted in certain merely pictorial
contrasts which are quite distinct from, even when they are akin to, the
spiritual view involved. For instance, there is admirable satire in the
idea of Touchstone teaching worldly wisdom and worldly honour to the
woodland yokels. There is excellent philosophy in the idea of the fool
being the representative of civilisation in the forest. But quite apart
from this deeper meaning in the incident, the mere figure of the jester,
in his bright motley and his cap and bells, against the green background
of the forest and the rude forms of the shepherds, is a strong example
of the purely picturesque. There is excellent tragic irony in the
confrontation of the melancholy philosopher among the tombs with the
cheerful digger of the graves. It sums up the essential point, that dead
bodies can be comic; it is only dead souls that can be tragic. But quite
apart from such irony, the mere picture of the grotesque gravedigger,
the black-clad prince, and the skull is a picture in the strongest sense
picturesque. Caliban and the two shipwrecked drunkards are an admirable
symbol; but they are also an admirable scene. Bottom, with the ass's
head, sitting in a ring of elves, is excellent moving comedy, but also
excellent still life. Falstaff with his huge body, Bardolph with his
burning nose, are masterpieces of the pen; but they would be fine
sketches even for the pencil. King Lear, in the storm, is a landscape