eenth century, we cannot see who is in real
danger, or why, or of what. And with all this, Dickens was not
incapable of bathos, or tragedy suddenly exploding in farce. The end
of Krook by spontaneous combustion is such a case; but a worse case is
the death of Dora, Copperfield's baby wife, along with that of the
lap-dog, Jip. This is one of those unforgotten, unpardonable,
egregious blunders in art, in feeling, even in decency, which must
finally exclude Charles Dickens from the rank of the true immortals.

But his books will long be read for his wonderful successes, and his
weaker pieces will entirely be laid aside as are the failures of so
many great men, the rubbish of Fielding, of Goldsmith, of Defoe; which
do nothing now to dim the glory of _Tom Jones_, _The Vicar of
Wakefield_, and _Robinson Crusoe_. The glory of Charles Dickens will
always be in his _Pickwick_, his first, his best, his inimitable
triumph. It is true that it is a novel without a plot, without
beginning, middle, or end, with much more of caricature than of
character, with some extravagant tom-foolery, and plenty of vulgarity.
But its originality, its irrepressible drolleries, its substantial
human nature, and its intense vitality, place it quite in a class by
itself. We can no more group it, or test it by any canon of criticism,
than we could group or define _Pantagruel_ or _Faust_. There are some
works of genius which seem to transcend all criticism, of which the
very extravagances and incoherences increase the charm. And _Pickwick_
ought to live with _Gil Blas_ and _Tristram Shandy_. In a deeper vein,
the tragic scenes in _Oliver Twist_ and in _Barnaby Rudge_ must long
hold their ground, for they can be read and re-read in youth, in
manhood, in old age. The story of Dotheboys Hall, the Yarmouth
memories of Copperfield, Little Nell, Mrs. Gamp, Micawber, Toots,
Captain Cuttle, Pecksniff, and many more will long continue to delight
the youth of the English-speaking races. But few writers are
remembered so keenly by certain characters, certain scenes, incidental
whimsies, and so little for entire novels treated strictly as works of
art. There is no reason whatever for pretending that all these scores
of tales are at all to be compared with the best of them, or that the
invention of some inimitable scenes and characters is enough to make a
supreme and faultless artist. The young and the uncritical make too
much of Charles Dickens, when th