im as something which is required to tie the whole affair
together. Nicholas is a sort of string or clothes-line on which are hung
the limp figure of Smike, the jumping-jack of Mr. Squeers and the twin
dolls named Cheeryble. If we do not accept Nicholas Nickleby as the hero
of the story, at least we accept him as the title of the story. But in
_David Copperfield_ Dickens begins something which looks for the moment
fresh and startling. In the earlier chapters (the amazing earlier
chapters of this book) he does seem to be going to tell the living truth
about a living boy and man. It is melancholy to see that sudden fire
fading. It is sad to see David Copperfield gradually turning into
Nicholas Nickleby. Nicholas Nickleby does not exist at all; he is a
quite colourless primary condition of the story. We look through
Nicholas Nickleby at the story just as we look through a plain pane of
glass at the street. But David Copperfield does begin by existing; it is
only gradually that he gives up that exhausting habit.

Any fair critical account of Dickens must always make him out much
smaller than he is. For any fair criticism of Dickens must take account
of his evident errors, as I have taken account of one of the most
evident of them during the last two or three pages. It would not even be
loyal to conceal them. But no honest criticism, no criticism, though it
spoke with the tongues of men and angels, could ever really talk about
Dickens. In all this that I have said I have not been talking about
Dickens at all. I say it with equanimity; I say it even with arrogance.
I have been talking about the gaps of Dickens. I have been talking about
the omissions of Dickens. I have been talking about the slumber of
Dickens and the forgetfulness and unconsciousness of Dickens. In one
word, I have been talking not about Dickens, but about the absence of
Dickens. But when we come to him and his work itself, what is there to
be said? What is there to be said about earthquake and the dawn? He has
created, especially in this book of _David Copperfield_, he has created,
creatures who cling to us and tyrannise over us, creatures whom we would
not forget if we could, creatures whom we could not forget if we would,
creatures who are more actual than the man who made them.

This is the excuse for all that indeterminate and rambling and sometimes
sentimental criticism of which Dickens, more than any one else, is the
victim, of which I fear that I for