that
must be mentioned derives directly from the mere maleness of the Sterne
and Smollett novel. I have already spoken of Dickens as the most homely
and instinctive, and therefore probably the heaviest, of all the
onslaughts made on the central Victorian satisfaction. There is
therefore the less to say of him here, where we consider him only as a
novelist; but there is still much more to say than can even conceivably
be said. Dickens, as we have stated, inherited the old comic, rambling
novel from Smollett and the rest. Dickens, as we have also stated,
consented to expurgate that novel. But when all origins and all
restraints have been defined and allowed for, the creature that came out
was such as we shall not see again. Smollett was coarse; but Smollett
was also cruel. Dickens was frequently horrible; he was never cruel. The
art of Dickens was the most exquisite of arts: it was the art of
enjoying everybody. Dickens, being a very human writer, had to be a very
human being; he had his faults and sensibilities in a strong degree; and
I do not for a moment maintain that he enjoyed everybody in his daily
life. But he enjoyed everybody in his books: and everybody has enjoyed
everybody in those books even till to-day. His books are full of baffled
villains stalking out or cowardly bullies kicked downstairs. But the
villains and the cowards are such delightful people that the reader
always hopes the villain will put his head through a side window and
make a last remark; or that the bully will say one thing more, even from
the bottom of the stairs. The reader really hopes this; and he cannot
get rid of the fancy that the author hopes so too. I cannot at the
moment recall that Dickens ever killed a comic villain, except Quilp,
who was deliberately made even more villainous than comic. There can be
no serious fears for the life of Mr. Wegg in the muckcart; though Mr.
Pecksniff fell to be a borrower of money, and Mr. Mantalini to turning a
mangle, the human race has the comfort of thinking they are still alive:
and one might have the rapture of receiving a begging letter from Mr.
Pecksniff, or even of catching Mr. Mantalini collecting the washing, if
one always lurked about on Monday mornings. This sentiment (the true
artist will be relieved to hear) is entirely unmoral. Mrs. Wilfer
deserved death much more than Mr. Quilp, for she had succeeded in
poisoning family life persistently, while he was (to say the least of
it) intermit