Chapter XVIII

Dickens--Sympathy with the Poor--Vulgarity--Geniality--Mrs.
Gamp--Mixture of Pathos and Humour--Lever and Dickens
compared--Dickens' power of Description--General Remarks.

We shall be paying Hood no undue compliment if we couple his name with that of Dickens as betokening the approach of milder and gentler sentiments. They were themselves the chief pioneers of the better way. Hitherto the poor and uneducated had been regarded with a certain amount of contempt; their language and stupidity had formed fertile subjects for the coarse ridicule of the humorist. But now a change was in progress; broader views were gaining ground, and a time was coming when men, notwithstanding the accidents of birth and fortune, should feel mutual sympathy, and

"brothers be for a' that."

With Dickens the poor man was not a mere clown or blockhead; but beneath his "hodden gray" often carried good feeling, intelligence, and wit. He was rather humorous than ludicrous, and had some dignity of character. Since his time, consideration for the poor has greatly increased; we see it in the large charitable gifts, which are always increasing--in the interest taken in schools and hospitals. Probably the respectable and quiet character of the labouring classes has contributed to raise them in the estimation of the richer part of the community.

A large portion of English humour is now employed upon so-called vulgarity. The modification of feeling with regard to the humbler classes has caused changes in the signification of this word. Originally derived from "vulgus," the crowd, it meant that roughness of language and manner which is found among the less educated. It did not properly imply anything culpable, but had a bad sense given it by those who considered "gentlemanly" to imply some moral superiority. The worship of wealth so caused the signification of this latter word to exceed its original reference to high birth, that we now hear people say that there are real gentlemen among the poorer classes; and, conversely, we at times speak of the vulgarity of the rich, as of their pride, impertinence, or affectation--just as Fielding used the word "mob" to signify contemptible people of any class. It is evident that some moral superiority or deficiency is thus implied. There may be, on the whole, some foundation for such distinctions, but they are not so much recognised as they were, scarcely at all in the cases of individuals, and the provincial accents and false grammar of the poor are more amusing than formerly, because we take a kindlier interest in that class.

M. Taine does not seem to have exercised his usual penetration when he says that English humour "far from agreeable, and bitter in taste, like their own beverages, abounds in Dickens. French sprightliness, joy, and gaiety is a kind of good wine only grown in the lands of the sun. In its insular state it leaves an aftertaste of vinegar. The man who jests here is seldom kindly and never happy; he feels and censures the inequalities of life." On the contrary, we are inclined to think that French humour is fully as severe as English--they have such sayings as that "a man without money is a body without blood," and their great wits were not generally free from bitterness.

There is little that is personal or offensive in Dickens. It is said that he was threatened with a prosecution for producing the character of Squeers, but in general his puppets are too artificial to excite any personal resentment. There are evidently set up merely to be knocked down. Few would identify themselves with Heap or Scrooge, and although the moral taught is appreciated by all, no class is hit, but only men who seem to be preeminent in churlishness or villainy. Dickens is remarkable for his gentleness whenever his humour touches the poor, and while he makes amusement out of their simplicity and ignorance, he throws in some sterling qualities. They often form the principal characters in his books, and there is nearly always in them something good-natured and sympathetic. Sam Weller is a pleasant fellow, so is Boots at the Holly Tree Inn. Mrs. Jarley, who travels about to fairs with wax-works, is a kindly and hospitable old party. She asks Nell and her grandfather to take some refreshment--

"The grandfather humbly pulled off his hat and thanked her. The
lady of the caravan then bade him come up the stairs, but the drum
proving an inconvenient table for two, they descended again and sat
upon the grass, where she handed down to them the tea-tray, the
bread and butter, the knuckle of ham, and in short everything of
which she had partaken herself, except the bottle which she had
already embraced an opportunity of slipping into her pocket.

"'Set 'em out near the hind wheels, child, that's the best place,'
said their friend superintending the arrangements from above. 'Now
hand up the tea-pot for a little more hot water, and a pinch of
fresh tea, and then both of you eat and drink as much as you can,
and don't spare anything; that's all I ask you.'

"While they were thus engaged the lady of the caravan alighted on
the earth, and with her hands clasped behind her, and her large
bonnet trembling excessively, walked up and down in a measured
tread and very stately manner surveying the caravan from time to
time with an air of calm delight and deriving particular
gratification from the red panels and brass knocker. When she had
taken this gentle exercise for some time, she sat down upon the
steps and called 'George,' whereupon a man in a carter's frock, who
had been so shrouded in a hedge up to this time as to see
everything that passed without being seen himself, parted the twigs
that concealed him and appeared in a sitting attitude supporting on
his legs a baking dish, and a half gallon stone bottle, and bearing
in his right hand a knife, and in his left a fork.

"'Yes, missus,' said George.

"'How did you find the cold pie, George?'

"'It worn't amiss, mum.'

"'And the beer?' said the lady of the caravan with an appearance of
being more interested in this question than the last, 'is it
passable, George?'

"'It's more flatterer than it might be,' George returned, 'but it
a'nt so bad for all that.'

"To set the mind of his mistress at rest, he took a sip (amounting
in quantity to a pint or thereabouts) from the stone bottle, and
then smacked his lips, winked his eye, and nodded his head. No
doubt with the same amiable desire he immediately resumed his knife
and fork as a practical assurance that the beer had wrought no bad
effect upon his appetite.

"The lady of the caravan looked on approvingly for some time and
then said,

"'Have you nearly finished?'

"Wery nigh, mum,' and indeed after scraping the dish all round with
his knife and carrying the choice brown morsels to his mouth, and
after taking such a scientific pull at the stone bottle that, by
degrees almost imperceptible to the sight, his head went farther
and farther back until he lay nearly at his full length upon the
ground, this gentleman declared himself quite disengaged, and came
forth from his retreat.

"'I hope I haven't hurried you, George,' said his mistress, who
appeared to have a great sympathy with his late pursuit.

"'If you have,' returned the fellow, wisely reserving himself for
any favourable contingency, 'we must make it up next time, that's
all.'"

Mrs. Gamp has a touch of sympathy in her exuberance. Contemplating going down to the country with the Dickens' company of actors, she tells us--

"Which Mrs. Harris's own words to me was these, 'Sairey Gamp,' she
says, 'why not go to Margate? Srimps,' says that dear creetur, 'is
to your liking. Sairey, why not go to Margate for a week, bring
your constitution up with srimps, and come back to them loving arts
as knows and wallies you, blooming? Sairey,' Mrs. Harris says,
'you are but poorly. Don't denige it, Mrs. Gamp, for books is in
your looks. You must have rest. Your mind,' she says, 'is too
strong for you; it gets you down and treads upon you, Sairey. It is
useless to disguige the fact--the blade is a wearing out the
sheets.' 'Mrs. Harris,' I says to her, 'I could not undertake to
say, and I will not deceive you ma'am, that I am not the woman I
could wish to be. The time of worrit as I had with Mrs. Colliber,
the baker's lady, which was so bad in her mind with her first, that
she would not so much as look at bottled stout, and kept to gruel
through the month, has agued me, Mrs. Harris. But, ma'am,' I says
to her, 'talk not of Margate, for if I do go anywhere it is
elsewheres, and not there.' 'Sairey,' says Mrs. Harris solemn,
'whence this mystery? If I have ever deceived the hardest-working,
soberest, and best of women, mention it.' ... 'Mrs. Harris, then,'
I says, 'I have heard as there is an expedition going down to
Manjester and Liverpool a playacting, If I goes anywhere for change
it is along with that.' Mrs. Harris clasps her hands, and drops
into a chair, 'And have I lived to hear,' she says, 'of Sairey
Gamp, as always kept herself respectable, in company with
play-actors.' 'Mrs. Harris,' I says to her, 'be not alarmed, not
reg'lar play-actors--hammertoors.' 'Thank Evans!' says Mrs. Harris,
and bustizes into a flood of tears,"

Dickens saw with Hood the power to be obtained by uniting pathos with humour. Such an intermixture at first appears inharmonious, but in reality produces sweet music. There is something corresponding to the course of external nature with its light and shade its sunshine and showers, in this melancholy chased away by mirth, and joy merging into sadness. Here, Dickens has held up the mirror, and shown a bright reflection of the outer world. Out of many choice specimens, we may select the following from the speech of the Cheap Jack--

"'Now, you country boobies,' says I, feeling as if my heart was a
heavy weight at the end of a broken sash-line, 'I give you notice
that I am going to charm the money out of your pockets, and to give
you so much more than your money's worth that you'll only persuade
yourselves to draw your Saturday-night's wages ever again
afterwards, by the hopes of meeting me to lay 'em out with, which
you never will; and why not? Because I've made my fortune by
selling my goods on a large scale for seventy-five per cent less
than I give for them, and I am consequently to be elevated to the
House of Peers next week by the title of the Duke of Cheap, and
Markis Jack-a-looral."

He puts up a lot and after recommending it with all his eloquence pretends to knock it down--

"As there had been no bid at all, everybody looked about and
grinned at everybody, while I touched little Sophy's face (he was
holding her in his arms) and asked her if she felt faint or giddy.
'Not very, father; it will soon be over.' Then turning from the
pretty patient eyes, which were opened now, and seeing nothing but
grins across my lighted greasepot. I went on again in my cheap Jack
style. 'Where's the butcher?' (my mournful eye had just caught
sight of a fat young butcher on the outside of the crowd) 'She says
the good luck is the butcher's, where is he?' Everybody handed over
the blushing butcher to the front, and there was a roar, and the
butcher felt himself obliged to put his hand in his pocket and take
the lot. The party so picked out in general does feel obliged to
take the lot--good four times out of six. Then we had another lot
the counterpart of that one and sold it sixpence cheaper, which is
always very much enjoyed. Then we had the spectacles. It ain't a
special profitable lot, but I put 'em on, and I see what the
Chancellor of the Exchequer is going to take off the taxes, and I
see what the sweetheart of the young woman in the shawl is doing at
home, and I see what the Bishops has got for dinner, and a deal
more that seldom fails to fetch up their spirits, and the better
their spirits the better they bids. Then we had the ladies'
lot--the tea-pots, tea-caddy, glass sugar-basin, half-a-dozen
spoons, and caudle cup--and all the time I was making similar
excuses to give a look or two, and say a word or two to my poor
child. It was while the second ladies' lot was holding 'em
enchained that I felt her lift herself a little on my shoulder to
look across the dark street. 'What troubles you darling?' 'Nothing
troubles me, father, I am not at all troubled. But don't I see a
pretty churchyard over there?' 'Yes, my dear.' 'Kiss me twice, dear
father, and lay me down to rest upon that churchyard grass, so soft
and green.' I staggered back into the cart with her head dropped on
my shoulder, and I says to her mother, 'Quick, shut the door! Don't
let those laughing people see.' 'What's the matter?' she cries, 'O
woman, woman,' I tells her, 'you'll never catch my little Sophy by
her hair again, for she has flown away from you.'"

Dickens' strongest characters, and those he loved most to paint, are such as contain foibles and eccentricities, or much dulness and ignorance in conjunction with the best feelings and intentions, so that his teaching seems rather to be that we should look beyond mere external trifles. Those he attacks are mostly middle-class people, or those slightly below them--the dogs in office, and the dogs in the manger. The artifice and cunning of the waiter of the Hotel at Yarmouth, where little Copperfield awaits the coach, is excellently represented.

"The waiter brought me some chops and vegetables, and took the
covers off in such a bouncing manner, that I was afraid I must have
given him some offence. But he greatly relieved my mind by putting
a chair for me at the table, and saying very affably 'Now sixfoot
come on!'

"I thanked him and took my seat at the board; but found it
extremely difficult to handle my knife and fork with anything like
dexterity, or to avoid splashing myself with the gravy, while he
was standing opposite, staring so hard, and making me blush in the
most dreadful manner every time I caught his eye. After watching me
into the second chop, he said:

"There's half a pint of ale for you, will you have it now?'

"I thanked him and said 'Yes'--upon which he poured it out of a jug
into a large tumbler, and held it up against the light and made it
look beautiful.

"'My eye!' he said 'It seems a good deal, don't it.'

"'It does seem a good deal,' I answered with a smile, for it was
quite delightful to me to find him so pleasant. He was a
twinkling-eyed, purple-faced man, with his hair standing upright
all over his head; and as he stood with one arm akimbo, holding up
the glass to the light, with one hand he looked quite friendly.

"'There was a gentleman here yesterday,' he said, 'a stout
gentleman by the name of Topsawyer, perhaps you know him?'

"'No,' I said, I don't think--

"'In breeches and gaiters, broad-brimmed hat, grey coat, speckled
choker,' said the waiter.

"'No,' I said bashfully, 'I hav'n't the pleasure--'

"'He came here,' said the waiter, looking at the light through the
tumbler, 'ordered a glass of this ale, _would_ order it, I told him
not--drank it, and fell dead. It was too old for him. It oughtn't
to be drawn, that's the fact.'

"I was very much shocked to hear of this melancholy accident, and
said I thought I had better have some water. 'Why, you see,' said
the waiter, looking at the light through the tumbler with one of
his eyes shut, 'our people don't like things being ordered and
left. It offends them. But I'll drink it, if you like. I'm used to
it, and use is everything. I don't think it will hurt me if I throw
my head back and take it off quick; shall I?'

"I replied that he would much oblige me by drinking it, if he
thought he could do it safely, but by no means otherwise. When he
did throw his head back and take it off quick, I had a horrible
fear, I confess, of seeing him meet the fate of the lamented
Topsawyer, and fall lifeless on the carpet. But it did not hurt
him. On the contrary. I thought he seemed the fresher for it. 'What
have we got here?' he said, putting a fork into my dish. 'Not
chops?'

"'Chops.' I said.

"'Lord bless my soul,' he exclaimed, 'I didn't know they were
chops. Why, a chop's the very thing to take off the bad effect of
that beer. Ain't it lucky?'

"So he took a chop by the bone in one hand and a potato in the
other, and ate away with a very good appetite to my extreme
satisfaction. He afterwards took another chop and another potato,
and after that another chop and another potato. When we had done he
brought me a pudding, and having set it before me seemed to
ruminate, and to be absent in his mind for some moments.

"'How's the pie?' he said, rousing himself.

"'It's a pudding,' I made answer.

"'Pudding,' he exclaimed, 'why, bless me, so it is. What?' looking
nearer at it, 'you don't mean to say it's a batter pudding!'

"'Yes, it is indeed.'

"'Why, a batter pudding,' he said, taking up a tablespoon, 'is my
favourite pudding! Aint it lucky? Come on, pitch in, and let's see
who'll get most.'

"The waiter certainly got most. He entreated me more than once to
come in and win, but what with his tablespoon to my teaspoon, his
dispatch to my dispatch, and his appetite to my appetite I was left
far behind at the first mouthful, and had no chance with him."

We are all sufficiently familiar with the vast amount and variety of humour with which Dickens enriched his writings. It is not aphoristic, but flows along in a light sparkling stream. This is what we should expect from a man who wrote so much and so rapidly. His thoughts did not concentrate and crystallize into a few sharply cut expressions, and he has left us scarcely any sayings which will live as "household words." Moreover, in his bold style of writing he sought to produce effects by broad strokes and dashes--not afraid of an excess of caricature, from which he left his readers to deduct the discount. Taine says he was "too mad." But he was daring, and cared little for the risk of being ludicrous, providing he escaped the certainty of being dull. He was not afraid of improbabilities, any more than his contemporary Lever was, and owing to this they both now seem somewhat old-fashioned. Lever here exceeded Dickens, and his course was different; his plan was to sow a few seeds of extravagant falsehood, whence he would raise a wonderful efflorescence of ludicrous circumstances. For instance, he makes a General Count de Vanderdelft pay a visit to the Dodd family, and bring them an invitation from the King of Belgium. Great preparations are of course made by the ladies for so grand an occasion. The day arrives, and they have to travel in their full dress in second and third class carriages. They arrive a little late, but make their way to the Royal Pavilion. Here, while in great suspense, they meet the General, who says he was afraid he should have missed them.

"'We've not a minute to lose,' cried he, drawing Mary Ann's arm
within his own. 'If Leopold sits down to table, I can't present
you.'

"The General made his way through the crowd until he reached a
barrier, where two men were standing taking tickets. He demanded
admission, and on being refused, exclaimed, 'These scullions don't
know me--this canaille never heard my name.' With these words the
General kicked up the bar with his foot, and passed in with Mary
Ann, flourishing his drawn sword in the air, and crying out, 'Take
them in flank--sabre them--every man--no prisoners--no quarter.' At
this juncture two big men in grey coats burst through the crowd and
laid hands on the General, who, it seems, had escaped a week before
from a mad-house in Ghent."

The basis of all this is far too improbable, but there was a temptation to construct a very good story upon it.

But Dickens builds upon much firmer ground, and is only fantastic in the superstructure. This is certainly an improvement, and we admire his genius most when he controls its flight, and when his caricatures are less grotesque. I take the following from "Nicholas Niekleby," Chapter II.

"Although a few members of the graver professions live about Golden
Square, it is not exactly in anybody's way to or from anywhere....
It is a great resort of foreigners. The dark complexioned men, who
wear large rings, and heavy watchguards, and bushy whiskers, and
who congregate under the opera colonnade, and about the box-office
in the season, between four and five in the afternoon, when they
give orders--all live in Golden Square, or within a street of it.
Two or three violins and a wind instrument from the opera band
reside within its precincts. Its boarding-houses are musical, and
the notes of pianos and harps float in the evening-time round the
head of the mournful statue, the guardian genius of a little
wilderness of shrubs, in the centre of the Square.... Street bands
are on their mettle in Golden Square; and itinerant glee-singers
quaver involuntarily as they raise their voices within its
boundaries....

"Some London houses have a melancholy little plot of ground behind
them, usually fenced in by four white-washed walls, and frowned
upon by stacks of chimneys, in which there withers on from year to
year a crippled tree, that makes a show of putting forth a few
leaves late in Autumn, when other trees shed theirs, and drooping
in the effort, lingers on all crackled and smoke-dried till the
following season, when it repeats the same process; and perhaps, if
the weather be particularly genial, even tempts some rheumatic
sparrow to chirp in its branches."

In the next chapter there is a description of the house of a humble votary of the arts.

"A miniature painter lived there, for there was a large gilt frame
screwed upon the street-door, in which were displayed, upon a black
velvet ground, two portraits of naval dress, coats with faces
looking out of them, and telescopes attached; one of a young
gentleman in a very vermilion uniform flourishing a sabre; and one
of a literary character with a high forehead, a pen and ink, six
books, and a curtain. There was, moreover, a touching
representation of a young lady reading a manuscript in an
unfathomable forest, and a charming whole length of a large-headed
little boy, sitting on a stool with his legs foreshortened to the
size of salt-spoons. Besides these works of art, there were a great
many heads of old ladies and gentlemen smirking at each other out
of blue and brown skies, and an elegantly written card of terms
with an embossed border."

When Mr. Crummles, the stage-manager, urges his old pony along the road, the following conversation takes place:--

"'He's a good pony at bottom,' said Mr. Crummles, turning to
Nicholas. He might have been at bottom, but he certainly was not at
top, seeing that his coat was of the roughest, and most
ill-favoured kind. So Nicholas merely observed that he shouldn't
wonder if he was. 'Many and many is the circuit this pony has
gone,' said Mr. Crummles, flicking him skilfully on the eyelid, for
old acquaintance sake. 'He is quite one of us. His mother was on
the stage.'

"'Was she?' rejoined Nicholas.

"'She ate apple-pie at circus for upwards of fourteen years,' said
the Manager, 'fired pistols, and went to bed in a night-cap; and in
short, took the low comedy entirely. His father was an actor.'

"'Was he at all distinguished?'

"'Not very,' said the Manager. 'He was rather a low sort of pony.
The fact is, he had been originally jobbed out by the day, and he
never quite got over his old habits. He was clever in melodrama,
too, but too broad, too broad. When the mother died he took the
port wine business.'

"'The port wine business?' cried Nicholas.

"'Drinking port wine with the clown,' said the Manager; 'but he was
greedy and one night bit off the bowl of the glass and choked
himself, so his vulgarity was the death of him at last.'"

It is greatly to the credit of Dickens that although he wrote so much and salted so freely, he never approached any kind of impropriety. The only weak point in his humour is that he borrows too much from his imagination, and too little from reality.

I trust that those who have accompanied me through the chapters of this work, will have been able to trace a gradual amelioration in humour. We have seen it from age to age running parallel with the history, and varying with the mental development of the times, rising and falling in fables, demonology, word-coining and coarseness, and I hope we may add in practical joking and coxcombry.

The remaining chapters will draw conclusions from our general survey. There can be little doubt that humour cannot be studied in any country better than in our own. The commercial character of England, and its connection with many nations whose feelings are intermingled in our minds as their blood is in our veins, are favourable for the development of fancy and of the finest kinds of wit, while the moderate Government under which we live, tends in the same direction. Humour may have germinated in the darkness of despotism, among the discontented subjects of Dionysius or under "the tyranny tempered by epigrams," of Louis XIV., but it failed, under such conditions to obtain a full expression, and although it has revelled and run riot under republican governments, it has always tended in them to coarse and personal vituperation. The fairest blossoms of pleasantry thrive best where the sun is not strong enough to scorch, nor the soil rank enough to corrupt.