entury; much of it was actually recalled
and copied from the life of Dickens's father in the old Marshalsea
prison. Also the narrative has something of the form, or rather absence
of form, which belonged to _Nicholas Nickleby_ or _Martin Chuzzlewit_.
It has something of the old air of being a string of disconnected
adventures, like a boy's book about bears and Indians. The Dorrits go
wandering for no particular reason on the Continent of Europe, just as
young Martin Chuzzlewit went wandering for no particular reason on the
continent of America. The story of _Little Dorrit_ stops and lingers at
the doors of the Circumlocution Office much in the same way that the
story of Samuel Pickwick stops and lingers in the political excitement
of Eatanswill. The villain, Blandois, is a very stagey villain indeed;
quite as stagey as Ralph Nickleby or the mysterious Monk. The secret of
the dark house of Clennam is a very silly secret; quite as silly as the
secret of Ralph Nickleby or the secret of Monk. Yet all these external
similarities between _Little Dorrit_ and the earliest books, all this
loose, melodramatic quality, only serves to make more obvious and
startling the fact that some change has come over the soul of Dickens.
_Hard Times_ is harsh; but then _Hard Times_ is a social pamphlet;
perhaps it is only harsh as a social pamphlet must be harsh. _Bleak
House_ is a little sombre; but then _Bleak House_ is almost a detective
story; perhaps it is only sombre in the sense that a detective story
must be sombre. _A Tale of Two Cities_ is a tragedy; but then _A Tale of
Two Cities_ is a tale of the French Revolution; perhaps it is only a
tragedy because the French Revolution was a tragedy. _The Mystery of
Edwin Drood_ is dark; but then the mystery of anybody must be dark. In
all these other cases of the later books an artistic reason can be
given--a reason of theme or of construction for the slight sadness that
seems to cling to them. But exactly because _Little Dorrit_ is a mere
Dickens novel, it shows that something must somehow have happened to
Dickens himself. Even in resuming his old liberty, he cannot resume his
old hilarity. He can re-create the anarchy, but not the revelry.

It so happens that this strange difference between the new and the old
mode of Dickens can be symbolised and stated in one separate and simple
contrast. Dickens's father had been a prisoner in a debtors' prison, and
Dickens's works contain two pictures par