The Sun.
London, England, 1845-12-24 00:00:00

LITERATURE.

THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH; a Fairy
Tale of Howe. By Charles Dickens.
Winter has now fairly arrived—the frost and snow
have commenced, and the face of nature is bleak and
desolate, yet all is not cheerless : as the outward
world grows more gloomy, the inward becomes more
bright. Yesterday the snow began, but in another
day we shall have Christmas! It was a kind Provi-
dence that fixed that day in the drear and desolate
season ; it comes amid the frosts of winter with its
warm sympathies and kindly feelings, cheering as an
oasis in the desert. All things announce that this
glad season is at hand. We have already noticed
those gorgeous volumes, the annuals, par excellence,
destined as gifts of friendship and affection ; now we
must speak of another annual, truly Christmas in its
character, that tells of home and domestic enjoyment,
and the fond delights of the fireside—" The Cricket on
the Hearth." Two winters have passed since the ap-
pearance of " The Christmas Carol," the first of Mr.
Dickens's annuals ; its success was undisputed—it
was received with that instantaneous and unqualified
applause ever accorded to books that echo the feelings
of the multitude. It was a tale most appropriate to the
season, showing the mighty power of Christmas associa-
tions even upon the most stern and cold. The character
of Scrooge seemed ill-suited to a Christmas carol ;
stern and repulsive in demeanour, cold to his relatives,
harsh to his inferiors, without a single Christmas
attribute, his very description chilled all sympathy;
we could expect from him nothing to interest or
amuse. This was a fitting subject to show Mr.
Dickens's power : like a potent wizard he can throw a
charm round all he touches, his power lies in his
knowledge of the heart; he showed us that even this
wretched man possessed human sympathy, and that
there he was assailable. His thoughts were led back
to the Christmas of the past, he recalled the bright
scenes of his youth ; the days of his happy childhood
passed before him, and the stern man was subdued by

their memory ; then his thoughts were turned towards
a future Christmas when he should sleep in the cold

grave, the prospect inspired an awful apprehension,
fear and memory alike combined to change his heart,
and with new and happier feelings he prepared to bless
the " Christmas present." Such was the tale of the
power of Christmas, its truth was owned and ap-
plauded by all. Next year appeared " The Chimes,"
very different in construction, yet, evidently written
with the same intention of calling forth kindly sym •
pathies. Theltheme was very dissimilar; it embraced
a wider field, and told of the sorrows of the poor. It
showed us their manifold woes and sufferings, their
misery and oppression, yet it told how, through all
their dreary path of life, the stream of love ran pure
and deep, fertilising all around.
" Men may differ, but affection
Dwells in rich and poor the same."
The dreadful privations of the true-hearted Meg and
her fond enduring affection, told through the medium
of her father's dream, :poke to the hearts of all with
the powerful language of nature. The third story,
which has just appeared, is unlike either of its prede-
cessors, except in the same constant endeavour to
awaken Christmas feelings. The tale is very simple,
but the moral is all-powerful--its object is to increase
domestic happiness, and to show the mighty influence
of the fireside. Like the blithe little creature whose
name it bears, it is lively, cheerful, animated,
and amusing ; yet one passage is of more than ordi-
nary power, full of deep and earnest feeling. It is
when the poor carrier fancies his wife has betrayed
him ; and, apparently, he has good reason for the belief.
His enemy is beneath his roof—thoughts of
revenge and murder fill his soul—when the
voice of the cricket, chirping on the hearth, awakens
the memory of his domestic bliss, and chases the dark
shadows from his heart. The following is a brief ex-
tract from this powerful scene :
Though the power of Omnipotence had been his to
wield at that moment, he had too much of its diviner
property of mercy in his breast, to have turned one
feather's weight of it against her. But he could not bear
to see her crouching down upon the little seat where he
had often looked on her, with love and pride, so inno-
cent and gay; and when she rose and left him, sobbing
as she went, he felt it a relief to have the vacant place
beside him rather than her so long cherished presence.
This in itself was anguish keener than all: reminding
him how desolate he was become, and how the great
bond of his life was rent asunder.
The more he felt this, and the more he knew he could
have better borne to see her lying prematurely dead
before him with their little child upon her breast, the
higher and the stronger rose his wrath against his enemy.
He looked about him for a weapon.
There was a gun hanging on the wall. He took it
down, and moved a pace or two towards the door of the
perfidious stranger's room. He knew the gun was
loaded. Some shadowy idea that it was just to shoot
this man like a wild beast, seized him; and dilated in his
mind until it grew into a monstrous demon in complete
possession of him, casting out all milder thoughts and
setting up its undivided empire.
That phrase is wrong. Not casting out his milder
thoughts, but artfully transforming them. Changing
them into scourges to drive him on. Turning water
into blood, love into hate, gentleness into blind ferocity.
Her image sorrowing, humbled, but still pleading to his
tenderness and mercy with resistless power, never left
his mind; but staying there, it urged him to the door;
raised the weapon to his shoulder; fitted and nerved
his finger to the trigger; and cried, " Kill him! in his
bed !"

He reversed the gun to beat the stock upon the door;
he already held it lifted in the air ; some indistinct
design was in his throughts of calling out to him to fly,
for God's sake, by the window—
When, suddenly, the struggling fire illumined the
whole chimney with a glow of light; and the Cricket on
the Hearth began to chirp!
No sound be could have heard; no human voice, not
even her's; could so have moved and softened him. The
artless words in which she had told him of her love for
this same Cricket, were once more freshly spoken; her
trembling, earnest manner at the moment, was again
before him ; her pleasant voice—oh what a voice
it was, for making household music at the
fireside of an honest man!—thrilled through and through
his better nature, and awoke it into life and action.
He recoiled from the door, like a matt walking in his
sleep, awakened from a frightful dream ; and put the
gun aside. Clasping his hands before his face, he then
sat down again beside the fire, and found relief in tears.
The Cricket on the Heath came out into the room,
and stood in fairy shape before him.
" I love it," said the fairy voice, repeating what he
well remembered, " for the many times I have heard
it, and the many thoughts its harmless music has given
me."

" She said so!" cried the carrier. " True !"
" This has been a happy home, John ; and I love
the Cricket for its sake!"
"It has been, Heaven knows," returned the carrier.
" She made it happy, always—until now."
"So gracefully sweet-tempered; so domestic, joyful,
busy, and light-hearted!" said the voice.
" Otherwise I never could have loved her as I did,"
returned the carrier.

The voice, correcting him, said " do."
The carrier repeated "as I did." But not firmly. His
faltering tongue resisted his control, and would speak in
its own way, for itself and him.
The figure, in an attitude of invocation, raised its hand
and said:

" Upon your own hearth"—
" The hearth she has blighted," interposed the carrier.
" The hearth she has—how often !—blessed and
brightened," said the Cricket: " the hearth whit), but
for her, were only a few stones and bricks and rusty
bars, but which has been, through her, the altar of your
home; on which you have :nightly sacrificed some petty
passion, selfishness, or care, and offered up the homage
of a tranquil mind, a trusting nature, and an overflow-
ing heart; so that the smoke from his poor chimney
has gone upward with a better fragrance than the richest
incense that is burnt before the richest shrines in all the
gaudy temples of this world!—Upon your own hearth;
in its quiet sanctuary; surrounded by its gentle in-
fluences and associations ; hear her! hear me! Hear
everything that speaks the language of your hearth and
home!"

And pleads for her?" inquired the carrier.
" All things that speak the language of your hearth
and home must plead for her!" returned the Cricket.
" For they speak the truth."
And while the carrier, with his head upon his hands,
continued to sit meditating in his chair, the presence
stoed beside him; suggesting his reflections by its power,
and presenting them before him, as in a glass or picture.
It was not a solitary presence. From the hearthstone,
from the chimney; from the clock, the pipe, the kettle,
and the cradle; from the floor, the walls, the ceiling, and
the stairs; frem the cart without, and the cupboard
within, and the household implements; from everything
and every place with which she had ever been familiar,
and with which she had ever entwined one recollection
of herself in her unhappy husband's mind ; fairies came
trooping forth. Not to stand beside him as the Cricket
did, but to busy and bestir themselves. To do all honour
to her image. To pull him by the skirts, and point to
it when it appeared. To cluster round it, and embrace
it, and strew flowers for it to tread on. To try to crown
its fair head with their tiny hands. To show that they
were fond of it and loved it; and that there was not one
ugly, wicked, or accusatory creature to claim knowledge
of it—none but their playful and approving selves.
His thoughts were constant to her image. It was
always there.
No writer possesses more power over the emotions
than "Boz." When we read his pages we surrender the
dominion of our feelings ; smiles and tears are alike at
his disposal. His pages are bright and sparkling,
full of warmth and merriment; the most common-place
affairs interest and amuse when graced by his lively
fancy, yet ever andanon, amid all this wit and gaiety
comes some passage of deep and touching melan-
choly, some heart-sorrow, pourtrayed with such
mournful beauty, such earnest faithfulness, that our
smiles all vanish, and uncontrolled emotion attests its
truth and power. Such changes are frequent in the
page of "Boz." The few who know him, but by name,
may speak of him as an author formed for.wit and
liveliness, but those who are familiar with his works
will own that his vivid fancy and lively illustrations
are only second to the deep feeling that pervades his

writings, to th,.=e touching pictures, his pen is power-
ful to pourtray,—the extremes of wit and feeling seem
united on hl3 page—this, indeed, is the secret of hiti
power. Let it not be supposed from this that "The
Cricket" is a melancholy story—far from it ) it is a
cheerful, pleasant narrative, as a tale of home should he;
The characters are all perfect. Little Dot, the carrier's
wife, will be a universal favourite, so brisk and
blithe, and animated and cheerful —just the thing to
make a fireside happy. And then the eccentric little
nursemaid, and the baby, who, to use its mother's
words, is "two months and three days ! considered
by the doctor a remarkably beautiful child, equal to
the general run of children at five months old; takes
notice in a way quite wonderful ; may seem impos-
sible to you, but feels his legs already !" All these,
and Boxer, we must not forget Boxer, who contri-
butes greatly to the happiness of the family ; all
these, described in the language of " Boz," render the
carrier's home and hearth a picture of domestic com-
fort. There are other individuals well worthy of
notice ; Gruff Tackleton, the toyman, who despises
the harmless articles he manufactures ; and, above all,
there is Caleb and his blind daughter, Bertha, one of
those unfortunate yet happy creatures in which " Boz"
delights. The poor father, anxious to render his
daughter happy, adopts the expedient of representing
the world not as it is, but as it should be. The fol-
lowing is an account of his fond, affectionate deceit :
I have sail that Caleb and his poor blind daughter
lived here ; but I should have said that Caleb lived here,
and his poor blind daughter somewhere else ; in an en-
chanted home of Caleb's furnishing, where scarcity and
shabbiness were not, and trouble never entered. Caleb
was no sorcerer, but in the only magic art that still re-
mains to us ; the magic of devoted, deathless love.
Nature had been the mistress of his study ; and from
her teaching all the wonder came.
The blind girl never knew that ceilings were dis.
coloured; walls blotched, and bare of plaster here and
there; high crevices unstopped, and widening every day;
beams mouldering and tending down ward. The blind
girl never knew that iron was rusting, wood rotting,
paper peeling off; the very size, and shape, and due
proportion of the dwelling, withering away. The blind
girl never knew that ugly shapes of &If and earthen-
ware were on the hoard; that sorrow and faint-hearted-
ness were in the house; that Caleb's scanty hairs were
turning greyer and more grey before her sightless face.
The blind girl never knew they had a master, cold,
exacting, and uninterested: never knew that Tackleton
was Tackleton in short; but lived in the belief of an
eccentric humourist who loved to hare his jest with
them; and while he was the guardian angelof their lives,
disdained to hear one word of thankfulness.

Caleb and his daughter were at work together in their
usual working.room, which served them for their ordi-
nary living room as well; and a strange place it was.
" So you were out in the rain last night, father, i❑
your beautiful, new, great-coat," said Caleb's daughter.
" In my beautiful new great-coat?" answered Caleb,
glancing towards a clothes-line in the room, on which
the sackcloth garment previously described was care-
fully hung up to dry.
" How glad I am you bought it, father!"
" And of such a tailor, too," said Caleb. " Quite a
fashionable tailor. It's too good for me.".

The blind girl rested from her work, and lauglaed
with delight. " Too good, father! What can be too
good for you?"
" I'm half ashamed to wear it though," said Caleb,
watching the effect what he said, upon her brightening
face; " upon my word. When I hear the boys and
people say behind me, Hal-loa I Here's a swell!' I
don't knew which way to look. And when the beggar
wouldn't go away last night; and, when I said I was a
very co,umon man, said, No, your Honour! Bless your
Honour, don't say that!' I was quite ashamed. I really
felt as if I hadn't a right to wear it."
Happy blind girl ! How merry she was, in her exul-
tation!

" I see you, father," she said, clasping her hands, " as
plainly, as if I had the eyes, I never want when you are
with me. A blue coat "

" Bright blue," said Caleb.

" Ye;, yes! Bright blue!" exclaimed the girl, turning
up her radiant face ; " the colour I can just remember
in the blessed sky! You told me it was blue before! A
bright blue coat "
" Made loose to the figure," suggested Caleb.
" Yes! loose to the figure!" cried the blind girl,
laughing heartily ; " and in it you, dear father, with
your merry eye, your smiling face, your free step,j? and
your dark hair: looking so young and handsome!
" Halloo! halkah!" said Caleb. "I shall be vain,
presently."
" I think you are, already," cried the blind girl,
pointing at him, in her glee. " I know you father! Ha
ha ha; I've fund you out, you see!"
How different the picture in her mind, from Caleb, as
he sat observing her! She had spoken of his free step.
She was right in that. For years and years, he never
once had crossed that threshold at his own slow pace,
but with a footfall counterfeited for her ear ; and never
had he, when his heart was heaviest, forgotten the light
tread that was to renderhers so cheerful and courageous!
Heaven knows! But I think Caleb's vague bewilder-
ment of manner may have half originated in his having
confused himself about himself and everything around
him, fur the love of his blind daughter. How could the
little man be otherwise than bewildered, after labouring
for so many years to destroy his own identity, and that
of all the objects that had any bearing on it!
The " Cricket on the Hearth " is a " fairy tale of
home," and it does ample justice to its title. It is
consoling to think that if
" Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth,"
at least some of them are occupied with our domestic
comforts. The crickets, it appears, are a potent tribe
of spirits, whose object is to promote the delights of
the fireside, and render the domestic hearth a scene of
love and happiness. Taking this " Cricket "as an
example, we shall not hesitate to agree to the hypo-
thesis, and can only wish every hearth in the king-
dom blessed with such a faithful monitor.