The Sun.
London, England, 1857-06-26 00:00:00

"LIRTLE DORRIT."

BY CHARLES DICHENS.

It is a great pleasure, and yet a great grief to us
also, that Little Dorrit has arrived at last, in due
course, at the period of its t.'rrnination. We have
never yet closed the green double number (xix And
xx) of any one of Mr. Dickens's elaborated serial
tales withrut this same mingled feeling of chagrin
and satisfaction. It is precisely the same with us
now, in regard to this concluding instalment, of
Little Denit., precisely. the same as it has been
with us previously, in various degrees, after a
perusal of the closing chapters of Bleak House, of
Martin Chuzzlcwit, of Donthcy and Son, Or of David
Copperfield. Observe—we have said "as it has
been with us previously, in various degrees." The
pleasnre and grief we have herevery sincerely spoktn
of, being, of course, proportioned to the excellence
of each particular performance. Delight at the
final satisfaction of a long sustained, a piqued, and
sometimes even a tantalind curiosity 1 Regret that
the dear companion of. many a gladdened month
before, wi'l be surely, surely missed by us here after !
Such—we need. hardly have said to m my thousands
upon thousands—are the conflicting emotions
(agreeable to the last, notwithstanding their in-
congruity) with
..which we end our first reading
of one of tl!ese great composite fictions
by one whss name we have long learned to love
and hon'our as that of the most delightful of all

English Hurnorist4. Any one who happens not t)
have yet read " Little Dorrit," but who has of
course read one or more of Little Dorrit's predeces-
sor, may, at once by an appeal to the menory,
imagine our " regrets " at least, on putting aside
—finished and done with fur the time being (in fact
until the next reading)—the last- new story by
Charle) Dickens Ret:ollect, for example, how it
was with you—un ler the like straight—you who
were readers in your time of "Martin Chuzzlewit,"
" the immortal narrative," as Sir Edward Lytton
genially calls it in the last number of Blackwood,
in the commencement of his new serial file in
monthly instalments ! Reniember how loath we
were then t) part, so far as the first reading was
concerned [and the first reading of a fiction is its
very life, as any after perusal is merely a reaollec-
tion of it]—how loath we wore to part then; for once
and for all, from the midst of that .crowd of motley
and familiar characters ! Wonderful Sairey Gamp
and her apochtyphal acquaintance Mrs. Harris—
chirrupping Poll Sweedlepipes and Bailey Junior
straddling about during the whole story the most
delectable and incorrigible of . Jackanapes—Tom
Pinch " Dear Tom, Old Friend," about whom a
clever critic in a recent number of Maga, wrote to
our thinking little short of " rank blasphemy"—
Pecksniff, that most sleek and oleaginous " Greek
Chorus" in broadcloth—Montague Tigg alias Tigg
Montague, with his Anglo Bengalse great hocub-
pocus swindling association—and with these how
many more ; the Spy Naddgett, the murderer
Jonas, M. Todgers whose gender still seems to us
to savour somewhat of the epicene, Mark
Tapley, Mrs. Lupin, John Westlock, Old
Chuffey, Ruth, Cherry, Merry, Betsey Prig,
Young Martin, Old Martin Chuzzlewit ! The cata-
logue threatens to be interminable—we cease. Re-
collect how gladly we would have lingered longer in
the midst of them, those vivid delineations, those li-
teral "creations," those ssemiugly tangible, visi-
ble; living-and breathing' personages. And you
who have not read " Little Dorrit," but who
have read " Martin Chuzzlewit," may fancy the
throng of familiar figure)" now scattering away
from us into thin air at that ghostly
exorcism "The End"—fatal as the sound of cock-
crow to the witches of theWalpurgis ! Yet scattered
from us thus by the so far unwelcome close of our
first perusal—the characters of Little Dorrit like so
many hundreds of those in Little Dorrit's prede
nessors will live long (better this than flies in
amber !) in the perpetuating medium of a most
vivid remembrance. What characters, what
creations they are many of them ! Panck-7,
the • Tau Casby, the Patriarch. Gentle,
Tag.
manly hearted Arthur Clennam. Flora per-
fectly natural, yet utterly preposterous. Plor-
nish, the good-natured, growling plaisterer. Mrs.
Plornish, his helpmate, with her rare Italian ac-
complishments. Little Mr. Nandy, her old father
—of Phyllis and Chloe, and yet also of the Work-
house. Dear Little Dorrit. Uncle Frederick of the
Clarionet. Mr. Dorrit, of Mayfair, and likewise
—hum —ha— of the Marshalsea. Blandois
Rigaud (of Paris), Chevalier d'lndustrie—he,
of the descending nose and the ascending
moustache: Mrs. Clennam, old Flint winch, Affery,
Tip, Fanny, Merdle, Meagles, Doyce, Gowan,
Maggy, Mr. F.'s Aunt, Sparkler, Physician,
Bishop, Bar ! All the well-to-do denizens of the
gay world—and all the ill-to-do denizens of the
poor miserable dilapidated world of the Marshal-
se t. What a microcosm the book is ! replete

—in spite of irs shortcomings—with tra-
gedy and comedy, with the hortiely and the
eltritch, the romantic and the commonplace, the
pathetic and the ridiculous ! The author expresses
a very natural wish in his preface to the effect that
now the various threads of his narrative arawoven to
a conclusion, it may not be unreasonable on his
part to ask " that the weaving may be looked at in
its completed state, and with the pattern fioished."
How reasonable this wish is, to our thinking, may
be conjectured, when we add that in this double
number the mtnifold mysteries of Little Dorrit
are surprisingly explained. Observe are ex-
plained, are actually accounted for—not slurred
over, but accounted for. Pint winch's shadowy
4' double "—Mrs. Cletmam's " motives "—all the
ghostly sounds and rumours about the House upon
Crutches—Rigaud's power over "them two clever
ones." Everything in the story, we repeat, is ex-
plained that seems to require, and at the same time
to defy explaatation. It is the most rational expla-
nation, indeed, of apparently inscrutable enigmas
that wo can call to mind since the winding up of
" The Mysteries of Udolpho." As to the fall
of the House upon Crutches—(a fall which
Mr. Dickens may remember we ourselves
anticipated)—Poe had already, in one of his brief
wierd Tales of Glamour, employed the same grimly
idea by way of solution ! We allude to his record of
"The Fall of the House of Usher." Here is the incident
as described by Mr. Dickens, with a pen dipped in
the ink of De Balzac. Blandois has been left alone
in the house, smoking upon the window sill—
" whoof !"—his moustache going up and his nose
coming down. "as he ogles a great beam over his
head with particular satisfaction." A short time,
afterwards—

It was one of those summer evenings when there is no
greater darkness than a bng twilight. The vista of
street and bridge was plain to see, and the sky was
serene and beautiful. People stood and sat at their doors,
playing with children and enjoying the evening; num-
bers were walking for air ; the worry of the day had a'-
most worried itself cut, and few but themselves were
hurried. As they crossed the bridge, the clear steeples
of the many churches looked as if they had advanced out
of the murk that usually enArrouded thorn and come
much nearer. The smoke that rose into the sky bad lost
its dingy hue and taken a brightness upon it. The
beauties of the sunset had not faded from the lung light
films of cloud that lay at peace in the horizon. From a
radiant centre, over the whole length and breath of the
tranquil firmament, great shoots of light streamed among
the early stars, like signs of the blessed later covenant of
peace and hope that changed the crown of thorns into a

glory.
Less remarkable, now that she was not alone and it
was darker, Mrs. Clennam hurried on at Little Darrit's
side, uninole4ted. They left the great thoroughfare at
the turning by wnich she had. entered it, and wound
their way down among the silent, empty, cross-streets.
Their feet were at the gateway, when there was a sud-
dee noise like thun
" What was that ! Let us make haste in," cried
Mrs. Clennam.
They were in the gateway. Little Dorrit, with a
piercing cry, held her back.
In one swift instant, the ell house was before them,
with the man lying smoking in the window ; another
thundering sound, and it heaved, surged outward,
opened asunder in fifty places, collapsed, and fell.
Deafened by the noise, stifled, choked, and blinded by
the dust, they hid their faces and stood rooted to the
spot. The dust storm, driving between them and the
placid sky, parted fur a moment and showed them .the
stars. As they looked up, wildly crying for help, the
great pile of chimneys which was then alone left
standing, like a tower in a whirlwind, rocked, broke,
and hailed itself down upon the heap of ruin, as , if
every tumbling fragment were intent on bury:ng the
crushed wretch deeper.
Ultimately, we are told, on digging out the
ruins they found "the ditty heap of rubbish that
had been the foreigner betore his head had
been shivered to atoms like so much glass
by the giant beam that lay upon him, crushing
him." As a contrast to this horrid casualty take the
laughter-moving vengeance wreaked by Paneks
upon the Last of - the Patriarchs. Proprietor and
Grubber, have been the central figure in a final
tableau in Bleeding Hart-yard, when--
• Quick as lightning, Mr. Permits, who, for some mo-
meno, bad had his right hand in his coat pocket,
whipped out a pair of shears,ars, wooped upon the Pa
triarch behind, and snipped off short, the sacred locks.
that flowed upon his shoulders. In a pat'i m
animosity and rapidity, Mr. Pancks then eanzgYlist
broad-brimmed hat out of the astounded Patriarch'
hand, cut it down into a mere stewpan, and fixed
the Patriarch's head, ittohonesf

Before the frightful results of this desperate action,
Mr. Pancks himself recoiled in consternation. A bare•
polled, goggle-eyed, big-headed, lumbering personage
stood staring at him, not in the least impressive, not
in the least venerable, who seemed to bay e started
out of the earth to ask what was become of Mr. Casby.
After staring at this phantom in return, in silent awe,
Mr. Pancks threw down his shears, and fled for a
place of hiding, where he might lie sheltered from the
consequences of his crime. Mr. Pancks deemed it
prudent to use all possible dispatch in making off,