The Sun.
London, England, 1853-08-22 00:00:00

LIT.ERATITRE.

131traok
No. XVIII. By Charles Dickens.
ourlet without something like regret do we find
bleak arrived at the penultimate number of
(the Souse---conscious that another instalment
h,4„ double number concluding the serial) will
tZghaifto a close the chequered incidents of a story
itsto ore. simple narrative, half as a yet simpler
smcerae,
aet°blograpy. Our regrets in this matter are the
became of late Bleak House has by
11ortrieened
tlier
tale
our
excellence proved in many respects
rr,_o Y of its incomparable author's reputation.
perusal of the opening chapters of
poi Tale we must confess to a feeling of rather
derin
411 ant disappointment. There was such bewil-
, changino•
was g confusion in the scheme of the fiction, there
Worksuch a distressful sense of uncertainty in a
at doubtful intervals from the first
„IT the third changing at
there was such vagueness in
4t_i" characters at first introduced, and those charac-
,7B_, moreover, made such really mysterious and
Ze.xpected appearances on the scene—that with
(pe,,er admiration for the genius of Mr. Dickens
gen.„..tps we should rather say because of the
Chi i.:".eness and fervour of that admiration), the
e feeling excited in our mind by the tale was,
To this
observed, a feeling of disappointment.
els moment we have not the slightest notion
Whenceti, came so suddenly in the streets of London
hero and heroine, Ada and Richard. Even now
• clon't know anything at all, good, bad, or indif-
trt, about their antecedents. We can't conjec-
we e from what points of the compass the two lovers
t,
ore brought abruptly together. Their parents areas
like they had never existed. Their childhood,
• e
ginable within a dream, is wholly unima-
• • Adream
gain, up to this instant, John Jarndyce
4the Merest sketch of a character, without a trait
which he could be recognised, if we except his
ife!.erated allusion to the east wind. And assuredly
the
Jarndyce is nothing more substantial than
2.1(7, Merest sketch, the same may be said of that
kAs,ist silent and vapoury of walking gentlemen,
Zlan, Woodcourt. Another source of disappoint-
ent to us in "Bleak House" is connected with
Ymnderful Lawrence Boythorn, who, after pro-
mg so gloriously on his sudden burst" into the
e",• rrastive, wrecked our hopes in his regard Eby an
f2uallY sudden disappearance. Likewise to a cer-
hausl extent has it been with dear little Charlie, who
cc 0 ththadled from the precocious orphan of poor
dt,„,°,.avillees" into the obscure and for the most part
110-41" and invisible handmaiden of Esther Summer-
]) 1.3.• 'Crook and his diabolical cat glanced for a
,„„ll'ef While from the fiction like the veriest night-
-'l3, and then made a hideous exit in the glare of
d:Poutaneous combustion. Nemo, without uttering
ie liable, crawled about for a short time in rags to
in. of Opium in a garret, and then to moulder away
joa nameless pit in one of our city graveyards.
then
shouldered his broom for an instant, and
moved on" in a like direction. Gridley
4.,
raved about his wrongs during a hurried interval
,
ofdexpired in a make-shift bed in the corner
ha; shooting gallery. Meanwhile, we have had
Where" glimpses into the hall at Chesney Wold,
solemn footsteps sound along the ghost's
4...44R, at twilight, and where Rosa shows her pretty
at the lattice, and where the honest old house-
'eePer,
der Rouncewell, smooths down her laven-
th While sitting in the storeroom, musing over
the 'ortunes of one son, the " Iron Man," and over
have taiefertunes of another, the scapegrace. We
poie Peeped into Mr. Skimpole's apartments in the
falgon, where he condescends to a noontide break-
%s 11.Pcn a dish of nectarines. We have entered
has littered house of Mrs. Jellyby, where Caddy
twisd.be,en in a " state of ink," and Peepy has
i4,:eu• himself into a laocan among the area rail-
Z' We have penetrated the backarlour of the
co'hbllets, where the " mixture" has been placed
hc,vtenient to the elbow of the old girl's husband,
Itgirte hands of that same beneficent old girl her-
Yo ."„.s' the Worthy mother of Quebec, Malta, and
Woolwith—the colour-sergeant of the Non-
Par
e Battalion. We have watched the fair Judy
• assiduous attendance upon grandfather and
41'„ unaother Smallweed : and have witnessed the
t-t
' (;tion of Phil Squod to that stalwart Mr. George,
benefactor : and have remarked the • fits in-
li
lgeed
in, off and on, by the faithful Guster in that
6.„ underground kitchen of the tenement of Mr.
h-„agB hY the law-stationer. Sometimes our attention
called away from the main plot by the hoi
h"'" Piety of Mr. Chadband, and sometimes againi
If tile shallow philanthropy of Mrs. Pardigg e.
e,„ ...we have wandered up to London, it has been
the direction of the gorgeous town house f
T c
uedlocks, and now into the squalid haunts of
so, 4u-alone's. An attendant. sprite in the per-
al,°f Mr. Bucket, the detective, has waived a
;7, of magic over the scene through an occa-
riBl,-P under current" of forefinger. He has car-
de us with him along the trail left by the mur-
-4,e,r of the old man of the name of Tulkinghorn.
d„c 'Jae fixed upon Mademoiselle Hortense, the
t&,,,.-ea. riled lady's-maid, the brand of midnight as-
4-'4,,Mation. Throughout all these shifting scenes,
It "I. changing persons, and- varying incidents, it
eftimpossible not to have a discomforting sense
th keeir pervading confusedness—and yet gradually
pae,te„ has grown out of all this chaos of pre-
re,;:i,",i3n a surprising harmony in the un-
olitu.pg of the tangled skein of the romance,
-•
4.°1 all these regrets connected with the scheme
pe„..4le narrative there has latterly sprung up a
th-Z marvellous fascination. .Notwithstanding,
14;refore, the undoubted shortcomings of the ear-
betMoiety of the fiction as a work of art—it mtuhs
el Rteknowledged by us that we recognise in e
is°,Z,F instalments of " Bleak House" much that
her--tled to our warmest admiration. The num-
ter,„ here_i before us, that for August, may be
reZtued without extravagance as one of the most
foZatkable of the many remarkable literary per-
etZances of Boz. It lures us on from the first
sair,ll, ee to the last with an attraction wholly irre-
tbZe• It carries us breathlessly through all
leek impetuous chase after the missing Lady Ded-
shre',:eePing perpetually before us the miraculous
of •",xless of Mr. Bucket and the dazed solicitude
of the Summerson. It interrupts the account
the angular journey down into the country to
eacCLage of the brickmakers, and then suddenly
.ain to the crowded streets of the metropolis
hers ,;',.a.tong us into several of the sumptuous cham-
the f‘, the town-house of the proud but generous,
Wrsaiken and (literally) paralysed, Sir Leicester.
_ouladeell'illa apparently dying on his couch, sur-
Alr, bY a cluster of faithful attendants, by bluff
414' -,,,eorge, by kindly Mrs. Rouncewell, by the
Th: va_°llunnia, with her rouge and her sympathy.
the r, 0Y a sudden change, we are once more upon
tilne °ad, with Mr. Bucket and his companion—this
five;''°°, actually upon the trail of the fugi-
0.
ItioW•e vY e scarcely remember any imaginary
teetiontMore ingenious than the abrupt de-
,„by Mr. Bucket of the clue which
lab7:l,el3r guides them through the mazes of the
ancr•V_,
11l --the exchange of clothes between Jenny
ree.o47„ Dedlock. Certainly we cannot call to
Inovin'e"en any fictitious scene more exquisitely
the in its pathos than that which takes place
static stone-kitchen of Mr. Snagsby, the law-
touch It is marked in every syllable with the
nbly the masterhand. If read aloud it infal-
any ei,setamands les larmes clans la voix. Under
9nr re'ennastances it secures our sympathy, rivets
Mg Ward, and extorts our admiration. Suppos-
§ing co that Mr. Dickens had never written any-
leg usTiVarable in merit to these chapters, lead-
ing stLito the dead body of that lady-mother
4eP in draggled rags at daybreak on the
"f
.4.
• ouid have city
k
beengraveyard—that description alone
the
oveiisit sufficient to stamp his reputation
_e crew , Proving by the pathos of the humorist
er.
'4light lus at once of our Tears and of our