THE

author of Bleak House is now about the age of the author of Waverley when the appearance of that literary marvel took the reading world by surprise; and he has still the time before him to make new conquests in literature, as the northern magician did when he quitted verse and bent his pliant genius to romances in prose. The thing which Dickens has yet to do, is to write a good story. Hitherto he has attained his brilliant successes by the production of novels, which have lacked one of the essential qualities of that species of literary manufacture. Yet, in spite of this great defect, he has achieved a success in comparison with which even Scott's was almost a failure. Until the appearance of Uncle Tom, Dickens' writings were the only books that could be said to have been really published. Doubtless something of his success must be attributed to the improved machinery of publishing, but much more to the popular character of his productions. We hardly feel warranted in thinking that the author of Pickwick lacks the talent of construction, for it may be, that finding he could accomplish his aims by a much easier and cheaper process, he has never thought it worth his while to try to construct a regular epic. He has found the public greedy enough to take his single characters, and has not attempted to add to their value by weaving them together in a plot. As a delineator of persons, and the creator of distinct types of humanity, he stands second only to Shakspeare; while, in fertility of invention, he is fully the equal of the great poet of humanity. If he has given us none of the grander forms of human passion, none of the Othellos, Hamlets and Lady Macbeths, he has created a vastly greater multitude of the baser order than the great dramatist.

Dickens has never advanced from his first starting point, as a literary artist. He commenced as a sketcher of character, and has been content to continue on in the same line, as he well might; for his first success was so brilliant, that he might be forgiven for not running the risk of failure, by departing from his specialitie. It is remarkable that his first serial work, which was not intended to be a story, should have proved to be more of one than any of his subsequent productions, in which he aimed at a plot. Pickwick insensibly ran into a tale before the author seemed aware of what he was doing, and the winding up and disposal of the characters at the end, is more natural

in that outburst of youthful genius, than in any of his productions which succeeded it. We have heard many of the most enthusiastic admirers of Pickwick complain that his after stories were failures; but either of his works, we imagine, would have created as great a sensation as that, if it had been his first; and we believe that even Bleak House would have been hailed as a greater marvel, if his previous creations had not blunted the keen edge of enjoyment, which that prodigious repertory of character would have gratified. But, such has been the prodigal affluence of his genius in scattering his characters, that we take up a new number of one of his stories, and feel ourselves wronged if we do not find half a dozen or more of new people, whose names and characteristics we can no more forget, than we can those of our own schoolfellows, or the members of our own household. Yet there is nothing so rare in literature as the creation of a new character; from the time of Shakspeare to Fielding, there were not half a dozen added to the realm of fiction, and among these few, Addison's Knight is the only one that has a distinct presence of its own. The forty-nine acted plays of Dryden did not all contain a single character that the world now remembers. Fielding made a very considerable addition to the populousness of the world of fiction, and since his time there have been many more added; but the creations of Dickens are more numerous than those of all the authors that preceded him, from the days of Fielding and Smollet, put together. If any one thinks we make an extravagant statement, let him make a list of the familiar names in fiction, and compare it with a list of those which he can cull from the productions of Dickens. The only contemporary author who can be mentioned in comparison with him, as a creator of character, is Thackeray, who, in the construction of his stories, and the motive of his plots, is infinitely his superior. But, though in quality, the characters of Thackeray are equal to those of Dickens, in fertility of invention he cannot rank with his great rival. As a literary artist, we are inclined to rank the author of Pendennis above the author of Pickwick, it is in the power of production, and the fertility of invention, that the superiority of Dickens lies-the ease and grace with which he flings his characters from his brilliant pen upon the wondering multitude. The characters of Thackeray are gradually developed by the progress of

his narrative, and we never know them thoroughly until he dismisses them in the last chapter. They are gradually formed, as a portrait painter produces the likeness of his sitter, first the outline of the face, and then the protrait grows by touching, scumbling and glazing, until the perfected image is firmly and brilliantly depicted to the eye of the spectator. They make so essential a part of the plot, and are so naturally evolved out of the events narrated, that they and the catastrophe of the tale are alike and inseparable. It is very different with the characters of Dickens; they are in his stories, but not necessary parts of them; the denouements of his plots, if that term can be properly used in speaking of the close of his stories, might be very different without doing any violence to the reader's sense of justice or propriety. In reality, none of his stories has a catastrophe that satisfies the reader. The tale ends because it is the twentieth number, and not from necessity, as Pendennis, and Vanity Fair, and the Bride of Lammermoor, and Othello, and Romeo and Juliet end.

If the process of development in Thackeray resembles the art of the portrait painter, Mr. Dickens' method is like that of the daguerreotypist; he strikes out at the start his perfect character, and spoils it often, as the daguerreotypist does, by attempting to color it afterwards. Our first sight of Dickens' characters makes us perfectly acquainted with them, and we can know nothing more about them: they are shown to us over and over again; but always the same-wearing the same clothes, using the same phrases, and presenting the same appearance, like the actors in a stage tragedy, who wear the same rouge and the same robes through ten or twenty years of action. It is this permanency and fixedness of character which makes it necessary for Dickens to introduce new personages continually to keep up the interest of the reader; and it is his power of production that makes him careless of the conduct and consistency of his story. Then too, such are the attractive and winning graces of his style, that he can, when character and incident fail him, always secure the reader's attention by mere profuseness of riotous rhetoric, which has no other use than that of diverting his reader. There are pages and pages of such writing in Bleak House, as there are in many of his other marvellous productions. Marvellous they are, beyond dispute, for it is a wonderful power that enables a writer, who has nothing new to tell the world, whose style has lost its novelty, if not its charm, to keep possession of the attention of the

reading world through twenty months, while he is doling out to them, every thirty days, bits of a story, which, in itself, has hardly any intrinsic interest.

In Bleak House, Dickens exhibits his greatest defects, and his greatest excellencies, as a novelist; in none of his works are the characters more strongly marked, or the plot more loosely and inartistically constructed. One-half of the personages might be ruled out without their loss being perceived, for, although they are all introduced with a flourish, as though they had an important part to perform, yet there would be no halt in the story if they were dropped by the way, as some of them are -Mr. Boythorn and his canary, for instance-without our being able to discover for what purpose they were brought out. Yet, who would wish not to have known Mr. Boythorn? We constantly meet people in society who in no manner influence our destiny, whom it is, notwithstanding, a great comfort to have known. And so it is with Mr. Boythorn and his canary, such a great, honest, healthy, and generous nature, rude and boisterous as his manners are, makes one more reconciled to the Smallweeds and Tulkinghorns that cannot be avoided. And Volumnia and her poor, feeble cousin, all of whose manhood has been refined out of him by generations of gentlemanly breeding, until the mere effort of speaking distinctly is too much for his aristocratic nature, are profitable people to know, although they do not help on the story an inch, but, on the contrary, retard it by their inanities. The debilitated cousin, is an enfeebled cousin Feenix, whose acquaintance we first made in our dealings with the firm of Dombey & Son; but what of that? is not Master Slender a step down from Justice Shallow, and Master Silence going a little below his cousin Slender. Volumnia is always the same, like the rest of the characters, and every time we encounter her it is like going into a room and seeing the same portrait simpering to us out of its gilded frame. The only change in her is that she grows pinker as to the red of her face, and yellower as to the white. But, we remember Volumnia and the dilapidated cousin, and doubtless we take a more sober and sensible view of human life from having made their acquaintance. The antithesis to this high-bred and amiable spinster is that fiery creature, the foreign young woman, as Mr. Bucket calls her, who acted as maid to Lady Dedlock, and was guilty of the horrid crime of shooting Mr. Tulkinghorn for the mere pleasure of accusing her ladyship of having committed that foul deed. The history of crime affords no instance of so

foul a deed, undertaken for so foul a purpose; and the provocation in this instance was nothing more than a dismissal from service. The character of Hortense is well sustained throughout, and her final taking off is altogether one of the most powerfully described and dramatic episodes in the book; but such intensity of hatred as she exhibits is unnatural; for such a nature as that of Hortense would destroy itself in its infancy. Mr. Bucket of the Detective fills a very large space in Bleak House, and is one of the best characters in it; he is a higher order of Sam Weller, and we hope there are plenty of originals like him in London, for most valuable members of our social organizations are the Buckets. He is hardly better than a talking watch-dog-a creature without nerves, passions, or emotions-whose sole aim is to do his duty, and by centring all his mind upon that, does it so perfectly that he seems to act from inspiration. But, great as Mr. Bucket is, in himself, and grateful as we are to the author for our knowledge of him, we must confess that even he might have been spared from Bleak House without deranging the story. He seems to have been introduced for the sole purpose of arresting Hortense, and has no direct influence upon any other person. He arrests Captain George, to be sure-noble, burly, vagabond, honest George, whom we also delight in knowing, and he plays with those happy children with the geographical names; but even he and they, and their admirable mother, and Old Lignum, their father, who is more of a soldier than any of the military novelists have ever drawn, could all have been dispensed with. The manner of life in the family of the Bagnets is precisely that of the Kenwigs, and it is in this humble phase of English society where Dickens appears to be most at home, and perfectly at his ease. His happiest hits have been made in such descriptions, and it was in describing such scenes that he first attracted the attention of the reading world in his "sketch

es

" which made their appearance in the Morning Chronicle. His name is always Dickens when he steps his foot upon such heather, which, we imagine, must have been native to him. The Bagnets are a good family to know, and a dinner of their customary bacon and greens would be pleasanter than the Waterloo Banquet at Apsley House. But the whole of the shooting gallery connections have no necessary part to perform in the unravelling of the mystery of Bleak House. And even Bleak House makes but a secondary figure in the history compared with Chesney Wold, which is a bleak enough old mansion, and which should have furnished the title of the story;

-what a bore of a house it was, with its terrible Ghost's Walk, and its damp atmosphere! we fully sympathize with the debilitated cousin in his opinion that "such fernal old jails nough t' sew fler up frever." And Lady Dedlock! Such an incomprehensible piece of absurdity could not be found in the whole series of Bulwerian and Jameserian romances. She has not a particle of womanly nature in her, and, like the second Mrs. Dombey, does nothing but put on airs from beginning to end. Her death, upon which the author has bestowed such elaborate care, is not half so tragic, or touching, as the death of the brickmaker's little infant. It is impossible to feel a sympathetic regard for such a creature as Lady Dedlock, who, we all the time see, is not a reality; and then, prominent as the author makes her, she is altogether de trop whenever she is introduced. She is a beautiful, well-bred, haughty, and fascinating woman; who deserts her illegitimate child, turns her back on her first love, leaves her only relative, deceives her husband; and, at the last moment, evinces the nicest sensibility, the most tender affection, and the most exquisite consciousness of self-degradation. The moment that Lady Dedlock attempts to do any thing but look beautiful and grand, she loses her individuality, and becomes somebody else; in short, Lady Dedlock is an utter failure as a piece of characterization. Not much more can be said in favor of her husband, Sir Leicester, who is a proud, vapid, feeble gentleman all the way through the story, striving for nothing but to keep up his imbecile dignity, when, in the closing chapter he becomes a gallant, tender-hearted, and noble old fellow, whom one could not help venerating, if nothing had been known of his previous character. Perhaps the author meant to show by these people that we are all human alike when touched by suffering, but his manner of doing it is not successful. There is no explanation given of the unnatural union of two such persons. How could a man like Sir Leicester, whose sole idea was the duty imposed upon him of preserving the family dignity, and to whom all earthly things were of no account compared with the privileges of his order, condescend to marry a woman of whom he knew nothing whatever? His housekeeper, Mrs. Rouncewell, is a good substantial portrait of an important member of English families, and her prosperous son, the sturdy ironmonger, is admirably presented, although he does nothing in particular but show himself, as a foil to Sir Leicester, and a specimen of his class. Harold Skimpole, when he is first presented to us, is one of the hap

piest creations of the author, and yet, so common a character in real life that every body said at once they knew a dozen Skimpoles. It has been said, too, that Dickens in portraying this character took Leigh Hunt for his model, and there are many points in Skimpole to warrant such a supposition; but this is one of the daguerreotypes that the author has spoiled by putting on too much color, after the portrait was taken. In making Skimpole a conscious villain he entirely destroys the consistency and truthfulness of the character, and Skimpole ceases to be the type of a class. But though Skimpole changes his character, he keeps up his phraseology to the last, and says precisely the same things at the close that he did at the beginning. Quite as worthless a rascal, and very much in the same line, yet wholly different in style, is the incomparable Turveydrop, whose care of himself, and remorseless indifference to the sufferings of others, are by no means contradictory elements of character. He is a splendid satire on society, and it was a most happy idea to make him up after Lawrence's effeminate portrait of George the Fourth. The character of his son, the Prince, the simple-hearted, tender, dutiful and hardworking dancing-master is one of the best characters in the book, and Caddy Jellyby, his wife, is one of the few characters that have grown up under the hands of her master. Caddy is not presented to us as a daguerreotype, but is beautifully and naturally developed by the progress of events. Her precious mother, on the contrary, is always the same, looking off to Borioboola Gha, and looking over the immediate objects which are entitled to her attention and sympathy-a perfect type of the philanthropist by trade; her poor neglected husband and children are all happily delineated, even to little Peepy, who is done for by being put into the Custom-House-a remarkable catastrophe for a hero of romance. Many have been the unsuccessful attempts to depict Mrs. Jellyby, by inferior artists, but, no sooner does the hand of a genuine master attempt to sketch her than she stands out before the world, the confessed type of the class to which she belongs. Henceforth Mrs. Jellyby is to be as real a character as Semiramis or Clytemnestra. When sham philanthropists are tioned, Mrs. Jellyby in her slatternly dress rises instantly in our memory. But Mrs. Jellyby was not specially needed in Bleak House, she was in no way connected with the Court of Chancery or the suit of Jarndyce and Jarndyce. Neither was Mr. Tulkinghorn; and this Mr. Tulkinghorn, who comes to his death so needlessly,

men

accomplishing nothing thereby, and filling so large a space in the volume, is one of the non-successes of the author. He is, oddly enough, introduced for the purpose of keeping family secrets, which are not of any importance to any body, and which he never divulges, but seems to be always on the point of doing something tragical, but never does. He is like a gloomy looking dark passage in a building that leads nowhere, and puzzles you to guess what it was intended for. The other lawyers, Carboy and Kenge, and their vulgar clerk, Mr. Guppy, and his fast companion, Mr. Jobling, and the Lord Chancellor, are all happily and strongly individualized. Conversation Kenge is a good deal of a humbug, but he is a perfectly natural and consistent character, and never forgets himself. Poor Joe, down in Tom-all-alone's, has already become a proverb. We read the deaths of a good many eminent men without an emotionthe newspapers accustom us to such events, but we cannot withhold a tear when we read the death of poor Joe, and when he is "moved on" for the last time we too are moved. Yet we know all the time that poor Joe is an unreal phantom-a mere shadowy outline, raised by a few strokes of a steel pen; yet we weep over him and give him the sympathies which we withhold from the real Joes we encounter in our daily walks.

The chief personage of Bleak House is Esther Summerson, a gentle, loving, truehearted and womanly creation; she possesses all the good points of the feminine character; and it was no wonder that Mr. Guppy should, at last, entertain so strong an affection for her. It was a redeeming trait in that gentleman's character, and we like him for it. But nothing can be more palpable than the strange contrast between the character of this estimable lady, and the manner in which she narrates it herself, confessing that she never was good for any thing, that she is awkward and so on, and then going deliberately to work to draw her own portrait in the most flattering manner, all the time perfectly conscious, too, that she was doing it. Esther is a perfect character, and naturally developed, with the sole exception that her picture of herself is an unnatural contrivance. Her portraits of Richard and Ada are in the uniform manner of Dickens' young people, but have nothing distinctive about them. Richard is intended as a forcible picture of a chancery victim, but he is, in fact, a victim only to his own weaknesses and want of character. Miss Flite is much more effective, as showing the melancholy effect of long deferred hope, and disap

pointed expectations. She is a very good companion to Mr. Dick in Copperfield. Krook is a night-marish character, and his going off by spontaneous combustion, which the author defends so stoutly in the face of science, is quite the unpleasantest thing to read in fiction. Jarndyce is a good old fellow, who can hardly be said to represent any body but himself, for such pure philanthropy, easy good nature, and good sense, are not often found united in the same person. Jarndyce is a prominent figure in the history of Bleak House, and, as the proprietor of that comfortable mansion, he should perform an important part in the drama which takes its name from his property, but he might be spared from the scene without the denouement being changed or interrupted. His proposition to marry Dame Durden is very tenderly and delicately managed; and we would recommend it as an example worthy of being imitated by any soft-hearted old gentleman who may have a desire to marry his housekeeper, or a lady much younger than himself. Mr. Vholes must not be omitted in the enumeration of the characters of Bleak House, a genuine specimen of the mean nature which the practice of the law, when the practitioner is not eminently successful, engenders, or at least aggravates; the henpecked law stationer, who is always afraid of putting too fine a point on things, and his unhappy wife, who will be jealous of him whether he give her cause or not, are bold, distinctly drawn individuals whom we do not readily forget, and their epileptic servant will always be associated with them in our recollection. And Mr. Chadband, incomparable Mr. Chadband, how superior he is to the Maworms of the stage, and all other attempts to delineate his species. He will for ever stand as the type of that numerous band of evangelists whom he so vividly calls to mind. We can only mention Coavins, who makes us respect a sheriff's officer, by the honesty with which he performs his unpleasant task, and whom we cannot but love as the father of Charley, the brave, affectionate and dutiful child.

These are not all the characters; but what a catalogue those form which we have named, to be found in one book. They are not mere names, nor lay figures, but distinct and striking individuals, who are remembered and alluded to as real personages who have impressed themselves upon us by their characteristics of mind and manner.

The undeveloped characters in Bleak House, such as are merely alluded to, but

who, nevertheless, impress themselves upon our memory, like Henry Pimpernel, and old John Naps of Greece, all have histories connected with their names, and awaken curiosity as to their antecedents and their fate. We should like to know something more of Mrs. Pardiggles and her progeny, for instance; and that aristocratic Welsh lady whose son marries Esther Summerson. There has been great disappointment felt by the public, at not hearing something of the trial and execution of Hortense, for she was hung, of course, and it was so much in the author's vein, that we do not see how he could resist the opportunity of spreading himself in that direction. But, if he had done so he could not have compressed the story into the twenty numbers he had bargained for. And what became of Krook's cat? Miss Flite's birds we have a most satisfactory account of, but the destiny of Krook's cat, like that of Hortense, is left to the imagination of the reader. The zoological characters in Dickens' stories are not by any means the least important of his personages; they play a distinguished part, create an interest for them selves, and live in the animal department of the literature of fiction, with the Wooden Horses, Brazen Bulls, and Golden Asses of antiquity. The Raven in Barnaby Rudge is as sure of immortality as the Starling of Sterne, or the Albatross of Coleridge.

The ostensible motive in Bleak House was to expose the evils of the Court of Chancery, and we are continually reminded by hints and pointed remarks through the earlier parts of the work that the dire catastrophe of the history of Jarndyce and Jarndyce, the culminating point of the narrative, is to result from the termination of that great suit. Yet, after all, nothing comes of it, and our horror of the iniquities of that institution are not in the slightest degree raised, or our feelings excited by the death of Richard Carstone, of a fever, which, under any circumstances, must have terminated his worthless life. There is not, in fact, any catastrophe at all, at the close; the climaxes keep occurring all the way through; our overwrought expectations, which the great writers of fiction never disappoint, are at last dashed, not by an inadequate revelation, but by a most provoking break in the midst of a sentence. Perhaps the author meant by this to hint that he intended to take up the broken thread of the narration again, and give it a proper winding up. We hope he did.