Thackeray on Dickens

As for charities of Mr. Dickens, multiply kindnesses which he has conferred upon us all, upon our children, upon people educated and uneducated, upon the myriads here and at home who speak our common tongue. Have not you, have not I, all of us reasoned to be thankful to this kind friend, who soothed and charmed so many hours, brought pleasure and sweet laughter to so many homes, made such multitudes of children happy, endowed us with such a sweet store of voracious thoughts, fair fancies, soft sympathies, hearty enjoyments. There are creations of Mr. Dickens which seem to me to rank as personal benefits, figures so delightful that one feels happier and better for knowing them, as one does for being brought into a society of very good men and women. The atmosphere in which these people live is wholesome to breathe in. You feel that to be allowed to speak to them is a personal kindness. You come away better for your contact with them. Your hands seem cleaner from having the privilege of shaking theirs. Was there ever better charity sermon preached in the world than Dickens and Christmas Carol? I believe it occasioned immense hospitality throughout England, was the means of lighting up hundreds of kind fires at Christmas time, caused a wonderful outpouring of Christmas good feeling, of Christmas punctuality, an awful slaughter of Christmas turkeys, and the roasting and basting of Christmas Eve. As for this man's love of children, that amiable organ at the back of his honest head must be perfectly monstrous. All children ought to love him. I know two that do, and read his books ten times for once, that they peruse the dismal preachments of their father. I know one who, when she is happy, reads Nicholas Nickleby. When she is unhappy, reads Nicholas Nickleby. When she is tired, reads Nicholas Nickleby. When she is in bed, reads Nicholas Nickleby. When she has nothing to do, reads Nicholas Nickleby. And when she has finished the book, reads Nicholas Nickleby over again. This candid young critic, at 10 years of age, said, I like Mr. Dickens' books much better than your books, Papa, and frequently expressed a desire that the latter author should write a book like one of Mr. Dickens' books. Every man must say his own thoughts, in his own voice, in his own way. Lucky is he who has such a charming gift of nature as this, which brings all the children in the world to be true to him, and be fond of him. I remember when that famous Nicholas Nickleby came out, seeing a letter from a pedagogue in the north of England, which, dismal as it was, was immensely comical. Mr. Dickens' ill-advised publication of The Poor Schoolmaster has passed like a whirlwind over the schools of the north. He was a proprietor of a cheap school. Dotherby's Hall was a cheap school. There were many such establishments in the north county. Parents were ashamed, that never were ashamed before, until the kind satirist laughed at them. Relatives were frightened. Scores of little scholars were taken away. Poor schoolmasters had shut their shops up. Every pedagogue was voted a squirt, and many suffered, no doubt unjustly. But afterwards, schoolboys' backs were not so much pained. Schoolboys' meat was less tough, and more plentiful. And schoolboys' milk was not so sky blue. What a kind light of benevolence it is, that plays round crumbles of the phenomenon, and all those poor theater people in that charming book. What a humor, and what a good humor. One might go on, though the task would be endless and needless, chronicling the names of kind folks with whom this kind genius has made us familiar. Who does not love, much dares a Mr. Richard Swiftler? Who does not sympathize, not only with Oliver Twist, but his admirable young friend, Theodore Dodger? Who has not the estimable advantage of possessing a Mrs. Nickleby, his own family? Who does not bless Sari Gant, and wonder at Mrs. Harris? Who does not venerate the chief of that illustrious family who, being stricken by misfortune, wisely and greatly turned his attention to Holmes? The accomplished, epicurious, the dirty, the delightful, and all. I may quarrel with this bizarre a thousand and a thousand times. I delight and wonder at its genius. I recognize it in it. I speak with awe, reverence, a commission from that divine beneficence, whose blessed task we know it will one day be to wipe every tear from every eye. Thankfully, I take my share of the feast of love and kindness, which this gentle and generous and charitable soul has contributed to the happiness of the world. I take and enjoy my share. Save an addiction for the meal.