specific and curative in his case was the
work in which he took such anxious pride, and such unmitigated delight.
He revelled in punctual and regular work; at his desk he was often in
the highest spirits. Behold how he pictured himself, one day at
Broadstairs, where he was writing _Chuzzlewit_. "In a bay-window in a
one-pair sits, from nine o'clock to one, a gentleman with rather long
hair and no neckcloth, who writes and grins, as if he thought he was
very funny indeed. At one he disappears, presently emerges from a
bathing-machine, and may be seen, a kind of salmon-colour porpoise,
splashing about in the ocean. After that, he may be viewed in another
bay-window on the ground-floor eating a strong lunch; and after that,
walking a dozen miles or so, or lying on his back on the sand reading a
book. Nobody bothers him, unless they know he is disposed to be talked
to, and I am told he is very comfortable indeed. He's as brown as a
berry, and they do say he is as good as a small fortune to the
innkeeper, who sells beer and cold punch." Here is the secret of such
work as that of Dickens; it is done with delight--done (in a sense)
easily, done with the mechanism of mind and body in splendid order. Even
so did Scott write; though more rapidly and with less conscious care:
his chapter finished before the world had got up to breakfast. Later,
Dickens produced novels less excellent with much more of mental strain.
The effects of age could not have shown themselves so soon, but for the
unfortunate loss of energy involved in his non-literary labours.

While the public were still rejoicing in the first sprightly runnings of
the "new humour," the humorist set to work desperately on the grim
scenes of _Oliver Twist_, the story of a parish orphan, the nucleus of
which had already seen the light in his _Sketches_. The early scenes are
of a harrowing reality, despite the germ of forced pathos which the
observant reader may detect in the pitiful parting between Oliver and
little Dick; but what will strike every reader at once in this book is
the directness and power of the English style, so nervous and unadorned:
from its unmistakable clearness and vigour Dickens was to travel far as
time went on. But the full effect of the old simplicity is felt in such
masterpieces of description as the drive of Oliver and Sikes to
Chertsey, the condemned-cell ecstasy of Fagin, or the unforgettable
first encounter between Oliver and the Artful Dodger. Be