B OOKS.

GREAT EXPECTATIONS.* THE reader of Great Expectations, unless lie has profited by his experience of Mr. Dickens's recent tales, is placed in much the same position as its hero. He has great and well-founded hopes at the beginning which are bitterly disappointed before the novel is half completed. The disappointment, however, is of an opposite kind. The reader is led to hope, when he begins the tale, that its coarse is to run continuously through that low life which Mr. Dickens describes with such marvellous accuracy and such delightful humour, to wind quietly among convicts and attorneys' clerks, henpecked blacksmiths, and tailors' apprentices ; here we find ourselves, and here we ardently trust we may remain, but the circumstances which raise Mr. Pip's hopes gradually depress ours; when his Ideal fairly enters the tale, we are discomforted, and when Mr. Dickens bursts into lyrics, melo- drama, and recitative, we almost make up our mind finally to abandon the story, and are only tempted on by those indications of a flagging wing which suggest that the author must sink again before long into that vulgar life which his genius has thoroughly matured, out of that thin sentimental region where it is utterly paralyzed, or rather trans- formed into noxious rant.

The cause which renders Mr. Dickens's great genius so compara- tively impotent in the more cultivated sphere of life and sentiment which he sometimes essays to paint, is not far to find. In the un- educated classes character is far more characteristically expressed, if we may use the expression, than in the higher. The effect of cultiva- tion is to draw a certain thin semi-transparent medium over the whole surface of human nature, so that the effects of individual differences of character, though by no means hidden, are softened and disguised, and require, not so much a subtle discrimination to discern, as a subtler artistic faculty to delineate without falsification. The power of painting, by the turn of a phrase, by a transposition in a sentence, by a movement, by a mode of receiving or accosting another, the bias of a man's character, is a power apparently of a finer order, but really much less rare and remarkable than the intellectual instrument with which Mr. Dickens fascinates us. There are twenty or thirty writers, many of them ladies, who can use the former faculty to perfection.

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There is not one who can attempt to rival Mr. Dickens n his own field. The truth is, that to play upon an instrument that demands great delicacy, though it gives out little volume of sound, is far easier than to produce the hiv,hest effects from a coarser and rougher organ. Fineness of touch in all artistic pursuits is indefinitely more common than great cumulative power. It is breadth and concentration of Aature which tell most after all, and Mr. Dickens's wonderful mas- tery of a comparatively coarse tool is likely to obtain for him a well- earned immortality which the subtlest and most intellectual of his rivals may envy in vain. And his special power lies in the manipulation of such well-defined habits of thought, whether professional or otherwise, as mark them- selves sharply on the outward bearing of men, and their broadest forms of speech. To these he can give an almost endless and il- limitable variety ; he will immerse and steep himself in them till he is thoroughly saturated, and then bring them into the most humorous contrast with all things human. It is out of such materials that he has constructed the figures of the two Wellers, Dick Swiveller, Mrs. Gamp, Mr. Toots, the American orators, Mr. Vincent Crummles, and a host of others. But he requires a habit of mind with a de- finite body to it, and this is so essential to him that he often mistakes the one for the other, and pounces upon some eccentric feature which he has noticed as if a class character could be extorted out of it, when it is quite incapable of yielding anything of the sort. This is a pitfal into which he frequently falls, even in relation to those classes which do let their real inward characteristics shine out plainly enough in their physical bearing.; but it is one into which he almost always falls when he is dealing with the more educated ranks. There he sadly wants a finger-post to direct his imagination, and he fancies be has got one directly he discovers a little individual trait or eccen- tricity, which he accordingly works to death. Hence it happens that he is far more successful, as a rule, when the outward habits he gets hold of consist of a collection of very many minute ones—for then it is usually really susceptible of a wide or general interpretation— than when it is a mere trick or eccentricity which is often very slight4 related to the mind of the person to whom it clings. It is one of the disappointing traits in his recent tales that these mere tricks—the accidents, not the essence of human character—have taken the place of that large assemblage of minute, coherent habits which go to make up such a figure as Mrs. Gamp or Mr. Weller, or that collection of traits indicating egotistic and excited unreality of thought which constitutes the humour of his picture of American rowdies. In this tale, we are sorry to say, and even in the better parts of it, this weakness abounds. We will throw into a tabular form the number of mere labels which Mr. Dickens affixes to his scenes and characters in this book, which indicate nothing broad or typical beyond themselves. Sometimes they constitute a catch-word of a scene, sometimes of a whole character : PERSON. TRAIT.

Mrs. J. Gargery Harps perpetually on having brought her brother up by. hand. Mr. J. Gargery Pulls his whiskers when embarrassed; and shows kindness by helping to gravy. Mrs. Camilla Ends sentences with "The ide-a!"

Mr. Jaggers Bites the side of his forefinger at people by way of menace.

'Great Espectatiotu. By Charles Dickens. 3 vols. Chapman and Hall. Mr. Wemmick Posts biscuit down his mouth, which is always

called " the post-office." Mr. Wemmick, senior . . . Is stone deaf, and always answers his son, "All right, John, all right."

Mr. Matthew Pocket . . . Lifts himself up by his hair when in despair. Mrs. Matthew Pocket. . . Drops her handkerchief incessantly, and laughs when it is returned to her by Flopson. Miss Havisham Lives by candlelight, wears only one shoe, and the bridal dress in which she had suffered her dis- appointment, and takes exercise round the table where the bridecake is getting mouldy.

Mr. Pumblechook Says " May I? May I?" by way of soliciting to shake hands with a prosperous acquaintance. It is certain that this kind of mere external label is not a high style of art. Sometimes, as in the case of Mr. Joe Gargery, the labels affixed are really characteristic, and the whole character is worked out so ably that they are by no means repulsive. But where, as in almost all the cases referred to, the little tricks delineated are the only sign-posts to the character of the persons sketched, the reader soon learns to rebel against this "damned iteration."

But we must not give our readers the false impression that this book is entirely made up of this false art. The earlier chapters are full of the happiest view of Mr. Dickens's humour. He has an eye which almost always succeeds marvellously in sketching the miseries of childhood, for no childish mind can well be outlined with that arti- ficial sharpness which is Mr. Dickens's greatest danger, and the point of view of a child, that of observant imbecillity, exactly snits the style of Mr. Dickens's fun. Nothing, for instance, can be happier than the remark of poor little Pip, in reference to his sister's wash- ings, that "I suppose myself to be better acquainted than any living authority with the ridgy effect of a wedding-ring passing unsympa- thetically over the human countenance ;" or than the impressions he had derived from the gravestones of his brothers and sisters :

"To five little stone lozenges, each abopt a foot and a half long, which were arranged in a neat row beside their grave, Ind were sacred to the memory of five little brothers of mine—who gave up trying to get a living, exceedingly early in that universal struggle—I am indebted for a belief I religiously entertained that they had all been born on their backs with their hands in their trousers-pockets, and had never taken them out in this state of existence."

Perhaps a still more characteristic instance of Mr. Dickens's rich humour is shown in his note of the undignified elements in human life. The village clerk and declaimer accompanies the convict chase, in which he becomes so tired that he is continually sitting down in the damp. On his return home he makes a feeble effort to maintain his ground against another great village potentate, but, says Mr. Dickens :

"As he had no theory and no coat on, he was unanimously set at naught,— not to mention his smoking very hard behind as he stood with his back to the kitchen fire to draw the damp out,--which was not calculated to inspire con- fidence."

Indeed almost the whole of the village life from which Pip emerges is delineated with all the power of Mr. Dickens's earliest works. No picture can be more truthful or humorous in its way than that of the child's state of mind when, terrified by the threats of the escaped convict, he finds himself obliged to save or steal food fol. the said convict's breakfast, and resolves to appropriate his own slide of bread-and-butter to that purpose :

"The effort of resolution necessary to the achievement of this purpose, I found to be quite awful. It was as if I had to make up my mind to leap from the top of a high house, or plunge into a great depth of water. And it was made the more difficult by the unconscious Joe. In our already mentioned freemasonry as fellow-sufferers, and in his good-natured companionship with me, it was our even- ing habit to compare the way we bit through our slices, by silently, holding them up to each other's admiration now and then—which stimulated us to new exertions. To-night, Joe several times invited me, by the display of his fast- diminishing slice, to enter upon our usual friendly competition ; but he found me, each time' with my yellow mug of tea on one knee, and my untouched bread-and- butter on the other. At last, I desperately considered that the thing I contem- plated mast be done, and that it had best be done in the least improbable manner consistent with the circumstances. I took advantage of a moment when Joe had just looked at me, and got my bread-and-butter down my leg. "Joe was evidently made uncomfortable by what he supposed to be my loss of appetite' and took a thoughtful bite out of his slice which he didn't seem to enjoy. He turned it about in his month much longer than usual, pondering over it a good deal, and after all gulped it down like a pill. He was about to take another bite, and had just got his head on one side for a good purchase on it, when his eye fell on me, and he saw that my bread-and-butter was gone.

"The wonder and consternation with which Joe stopped on the threshold of his bite and stared at me were too evident to escape my sister's observation. " What's the matter now ?' said she, smartly, as she put down her cup.

say, you know !' muttered Joe, shaking his head at me in very serious remon- strance. Pip, old chap! You'll do yourself a mischief. It'll stick somewhere. You can't have chewed it, Pip." What's the matter nowt" repeated my sister, more sharply than before.'if you can cough any trifle on it up, Pip, I'd re- commend you to do it,' said Joe, all aghast. 'Manners is manners, but still your elth's your elth:

"By this time, my sister was 'quite desperate, so she pounced on Joe, and, taking him by the two whiskers, knocked his head for a little while against the wall behind him: while I sat in the corner, looking guiltily on. " Now, perhaps, you'll mention what's the matter,' said my sister, out of breath, 'you staring great stuck pig.'

"Joe looked at her in a helpless way; then took a helpless bite, and looked at me again.

Yon know, Pip,' said Joe, solemnly, with his last bite in his cheek, and speaking in a confidential voice, as if we two were quite alone, you and me is always friends, and I'd be the last to tell upon you, any time. But such a'—he moved his chair and looked about the floor between us, and then again at me- ' such a most oncommon Bolt as that!'

"'Been bolting his food, has he?' cried my sister.

"'You know, old chap,' said Joe, looking at me and not at Mrs. Joe, with his bite still in his cheek, I Bolted, myself, when was your age—frequent-- and as a boy I've been among a many Bolters; but I never see your Bolting equal yet, Pip, and it's a mercy you ain't Bolted dead.' " "It was Christmas Eve, and I had to stir the pudding for next day, with a copper-stick, from seven to eight by the Dutch clock. I tried it with the load upon my leg (and that made me think afresh of the man with the load on his leg), and found the tendency of exercise to bring the bread-and-butter out at WY

ankle, quite unmanageable. Happily, I slipped away, and deposited that part of ray conscience in my garret bed-room." This is Mr. Dickens at his best, dressing those broadest aspects of ytjlgar experience with which he is best acquainted, varying them with all the power of a singularly vivid fancy so as to present them under a dozen different phases of embarrassment, and yet never losing sight for a moment of the real centre of the position. There is, too, in spite of the obvious caricature, much that is truly hu- morous in the character of Mr. Wemmick, the attorney's clerk, as he is seen in the retirement of Walworth in the society of the parent whom he habitually addresses as "Aged P." This picture is a kind of pendant to Dick Swiveller, with a touch of steady quaintness substituted for the fast delights proper to that gentleman. But excepting the early sketches of village society, which are really per- fect of their kind, and the episode of the attorney's clerk, there is very little in this book which any true admirer of Mr. Dickens would wish to preserve from destruction. The "Miss Havisham and Es- tella" element is nearly as shrill as the melodrama in Dombey, and far more extravagant. Nor are the lucid intervals in which Joe appears or any other character, who is devoted, like Mr. Toots in Dombey, to interrupting the currents of unnatural sentimentality, so frequent.

Mr. Dickens has made another mistake in the attempt which he has obviously made to construct a coherent tale, though it is obvious that his purpose has often wavered, and that many "undeveloped formations" have been finally abandoned before its close. His genius is not suited to a unity of plot. He needs the freedom to ramble when lie will and where he will. The most successful of his works have uniformly been the most incoherent as tales. The truth is that he gets too much interested in his own plot, and forgets the characters in his interest in the story. What he does so powerfully cannot be done under the strain of any exciting emotion. He is great when he accumulates details to illus- trate such homely roundabout miscellaneous types of character as he loves most to sketch ; but he is very small when he becomes lyrical, and he cannot deal with the destinies of his heroes and heroines without becoming lyrical. It is very excruciating to be indulged with much of the following kind, and Mr. Dickens is fond of it :

"'Never, Estella!'

" ' You will get me out of your thoughts in a week.'

"'Out of my thoughts ! You are a part of my existence, part of myself. You have been in every line I have ever read, since I first came here, the rough com- mon boy whose poor heart you wounded even then. You have been in every prospect I have ever seen since—on the river, on the sails of the ships, on the marshes, in the clouds, in the light, in the darkness, in the wind, in the woods, in the sea, in the streets, You have been the embodiment of every graceful fancy that my mind has ever become acquainted with. The stones of which the strongest London buildings are made, are not more real, or more impossible to be displaced by your hands, than your presence and influence have been to me, there and everywhere, and will be. Estella, to the last hour of my life, you cannot choose but remain part of my character, part of the little good in me, part of the evil. Bat, in this separation I associate you only with the good, and I will faithfully hold you to that always, for you must have done me far more good than harm, let use feel now what sharp distress I may. 0 God bless you, God forgive you!'"

If Mr. Dickens could only see how much he would gain if he could take a vow of total abstinence from the "Estella" element in all future tales, and limit himself religiously to vulgar life—we do not use the word in the depreciating sense—he might still increase the number of his permanent additions to English literature. This, Great Expectations certainly has not done.