This was in a season of great depression, when I began to feel in broken health the effect of trying to burn my candle at both ends. It seemed for a while very simple and easy to come home in the middle of the afternoon, when my task at the printing-office was done, and sit down to my books in my little study, which I did not finally leave until the family were in bed; but it was not well, and it was not enough that I should like to do it. The most that can be said in defence of such a thing is that with the strong native impulse and the conditions it was inevitable3. If I was to do the thing I wanted to do I was to do it in that way, and I wanted to do that thing, whatever it was, more than I wanted to do anything else, and even more than I wanted to do nothing. I cannot make out that I was fond of study, or cared for the things I was trying to do, except as a means to other things. As far as my pleasure went, or my natural bent4 was concerned, I would rather have been wandering through the woods with a gun on my shoulder, or lying under a tree, or reading some book that cost me no sort of effort. But there was much more than my pleasure involved; there was a hope to fulfil, an aim to achieve, and I could no more have left off trying for what I hoped and aimed at than I could have left off living, though I did not know very distinctly what either was. As I look back at the endeavor of those days much of it seems mere5 purblind6 groping, wilful7 and wandering. I can see that doing all by myself I was not truly a law to myself, but only a sort of helpless force.
I studied Latin because I believed that I should read the Latin authors, and I suppose I got as much of the language as most school-boys of my age, but I never read any Latin author but Cornelius Nepos. I studied Greek, and I learned so much of it as to read a chapter of the Testament8, and an ode of Anacreon. Then I left it, not because I did not mean to go farther, or indeed stop short of reading all Greek literature, but because that friend of mine and I talked it over and decided9 that I could go on with Greek any time, but I had better for the present study German, with the help of a German who had come to the village. Apparently10 I was carrying forward an attack on French at the same time, for I distinctly recall my failure to enlist11 with me an old gentleman who had once lived a long time in France, and whom I hoped to get at least an accent from. Perhaps because he knew he had no accent worth speaking of, or perhaps because he did not want the bother of imparting it, he never would keep any of the engagements he made with me, and when we did meet he so abounded12 in excuses and subterfuges13 that he finally escaped me, and I was left to acquire an Italian accent of French in Venice seven or eight years later. At the same time I was reading Spanish, more or less, but neither wisely nor too well. Having had so little help in my studies, I had a stupid pride in refusing all, even such as I might have availed myself of, without shame, in books, and I would not read any Spanish author with English notes. I would have him in an edition wholly Spanish from beginning to end, and I would fight my way through him single-handed, with only such aid as I must borrow from a lexicon15.
I now call this stupid, but I have really no more right to blame the boy who was once I than I have to praise him, and I am certainly not going to do that. In his day and place he did what he could in his own way; he had no true perspective of life, but I do not know that youth ever has that. Some strength came to him finally from the mere struggle, undirected and misdirected as it often was, and such mental fibre as he had was toughened by the prolonged stress. It could be said, of course, that the time apparently wasted in these effectless studies could have been well spent in deepening and widening a knowledge of English literature never yet too great, and I have often said this myself; but then, again, I am not sure that the studies were altogether effectless. I have sometimes thought that greater skill had come to my hand from them than it would have had without, and I have trusted that in making known to me the sources of so much English, my little Latin and less Greek have enabled me to use my own speech with a subtler sense of it than I should have had otherwise.
But I will by no means insist upon my conjecture16. What is certain is that for the present my studies, without method and without stint17, began to tell upon my health, and that my nerves gave way in all manner of hypochondriacal fears. These finally resolved themselves into one, incessant18, inexorable, which I could escape only through bodily fatigue19, or through some absorbing interest that took me out of myself altogether and filled my morbid20 mind with the images of another's creation.
In this mood I first read Dickens, whom I had known before in the reading I had listened to. But now I devoured21 his books one after another as fast as I could read them. I plunged22 from the heart of one to another, so as to leave myself no chance for the horrors that beset23 me. Some of them remain associated with the gloom and misery24 of that time, so that when I take them up they bring back its dreadful shadow. But I have since read them all more than once, and I have had my time of thinking Dickens, talking Dickens, and writing Dickens, as we all had who lived in the days of the mighty25 magician. I fancy the readers who have come to him since he ceased to fill the world with his influence can have little notion how great it was. In that time he colored the parlance26 of the English-speaking race, and formed upon himself every minor27 talent attempting fiction. While his glamour28 lasted it was no more possible for a young novelist to escape writing Dickens than it was for a young poet to escape writing Tennyson. I admired other authors more; I loved them more, but when it came to a question of trying to do something in fiction I was compelled, as by a law of nature, to do it at least partially29 in his way.
All the while that he held me so fast by his potent30 charm I was aware that it was a very rough magic now and again, but I could not assert my sense of this against him in matters of character and structure. To these I gave in helplessly; their very grotesqueness31 was proof of their divine origin, and I bowed to the crudest manifestations32 of his genius in these kinds as if they were revelations not to be doubted without sacrilege. But in certain small matters, as it were of ritual, I suffered myself to think, and I remember boldly speaking my mind about his style, which I thought bad.
I spoke33 it even to the quaint34 character whom I borrowed his books from, and who might almost have come out of his books. He lived in Dickens in a measure that I have never known another to do, and my contumely must have brought him a pang35 that was truly a personal grief. He forgave it, no doubt because I bowed in the Dickens worship without question on all other points. He was then a man well on towards fifty, and he had come to America early in life, and had lived in our village many years, without casting one of his English prejudices, or ceasing to be of a contrary opinion on every question, political, religious and social. He had no fixed36 belief, but he went to the service of his church whenever it was held among us, and he revered37 the Book of Common Prayer while he disputed the authority of the Bible with all comers. He had become a citizen, but he despised democracy, and achieved a hardy38 consistency39 only by voting with the pro-slavery party upon all measures friendly to the institution which he considered the scandal and reproach of the American name. From a heart tender to all, he liked to say wanton, savage40 and cynical41 things, but he bore no malice42 if you gainsaid43 him. I know nothing of his origin, except the fact of his being an Englishman, or what his first calling had been; but he had evolved among us from a house-painter to an organ-builder, and he had a passionate44 love of music. He built his organs from the ground up, and made every part of them with his own hands; I believe they were very good, and at any rate the churches in the country about took them from him as fast as he could make them. He had one in his own house, and it was fine to see him as he sat before it, with his long, tremulous hands outstretched to the keys, his noble head thrown back and his sensitive face lifted in the rapture45 of his music. He was a rarely intelligent creature, and an artist in every fibre; and if you did not quarrel with his manifold perversities, he was a delightful46 companion.
After my friend went away I fell much to him for society, and we took long, rambling47 walks together, or sat on the stoop before his door, or lounged over the books in the drug-store, and talked evermore of literature. He must have been nearly three times my age, but that did not matter; we met in the equality of the ideal world where there is neither old nor young, any more than there is rich or poor. He had read a great deal, but of all he had read he liked Dickens best, and was always coming back to him with affection, whenever the talk strayed. He could not make me out when I criticised the style of Dickens; and when I praised Thackeray's style to the disadvantage of Dickens's he could only accuse me of a sort of aesthetic48 snobbishness49 in my preference. Dickens, he said, was for the million, and Thackeray was for the upper ten thousand. His view amused me at the time, and yet I am not sure that it was altogether mistaken.
There is certainly a property in Thackeray that somehow flatters the reader into the belief that he is better than other people. I do not mean to say that this was why I thought him a finer writer than Dickens, but I will own that it was probably one of the reasons why I liked him better; if I appreciated him so fully50 as I felt, I must be of a finer porcelain51 than the earthen pots which were not aware of any particular difference in the various liquors poured into them. In Dickens the virtue52 of his social defect is that he never appeals to the principle which sniffs53, in his reader. The base of his work is the whole breadth and depth of humanity itself. It is helplessly elemental, but it is not the less grandly so, and if it deals with the simpler manifestations of character, character affected54 by the interests and passions rather than the tastes and preferences, it certainly deals with the larger moods through them. I do not know that in the whole range of his work he once suffers us to feel our superiority to a fellow-creature through any social accident, or except for some moral cause. This makes him very fit reading for a boy, and I should say that a boy could get only good from him. His view of the world and of society, though it was very little philosophized, was instinctively55 sane57 and reasonable, even when it was most impossible.
We are just beginning to discern that certain conceptions of our relations to our fellow-men, once formulated58 in generalities which met with a dramatic acceptation from the world, and were then rejected by it as mere rhetoric59, have really a vital truth in them, and that if they have ever seemed false it was because of the false conditions in which we still live. Equality and fraternity, these are the ideals which once moved the world, and then fell into despite and mockery, as unrealities; but now they assert themselves in our hearts once more.
Blindly, unwittingly, erringly as Dickens often urged them, these ideals mark the whole tendency of his fiction, and they are what endear him to the heart, and will keep him dear to it long after many a cunninger artificer in letters has passed into forgetfulness. I do not pretend that I perceived the full scope of his books, but I was aware of it in the finer sense which is not consciousness. While I read him, I was in a world where the right came out best, as I believe it will yet do in this world, and where merit was crowned with the success which I believe will yet attend it in our daily life, untrammelled by social convention or economic circumstance. In that world of his, in the ideal world, to which the real world must finally conform itself, I dwelt among the shows of things, but under a Providence60 that governed all things to a good end, and where neither wealth nor birth could avail against virtue or right. Of course it was in a way all crude enough, and was already contradicted by experience in the small sphere of my own being; but nevertheless it was true with that truth which is at the bottom of things, and I was happy in it. I could not fail to love the mind which conceived it, and my worship of Dickens was more grateful than that I had yet given any writer. I did not establish with him that one-sided understanding which I had with Cervantes and Shakespeare; with a contemporary that was not possible, and as an American I was deeply hurt at the things he had said against us, and the more hurt because I felt that they were often so just. But I was for the time entirely61 his, and I could not have wished to write like any one else.
I do not pretend that the spell I was under was wholly of a moral or social texture62. For the most part I was charmed with him because he was a delightful story-teller; because he could thrill me, and make me hot and cold; because he could make me laugh and cry, and stop my pulse and breath at will. There seemed an inexhaustible source of humor and pathos63 in his work, which I now find choked and dry; I cannot laugh any more at Pickwick or Sam Weller, or weep for little Nell or Paul Dombey; their jokes, their griefs, seemed to me to be turned on, and to have a mechanical action. But beneath all is still the strong drift of a genuine emotion, a sympathy, deep and sincere, with the poor, the lowly, the unfortunate. In all that vast range of fiction, there is nothing that tells for the strong, because they are strong, against the weak, nothing that tells for the haughty64 against the humble65, nothing that tells for wealth against poverty. The effect of Dickens is purely66 democratic, and however contemptible67 he found our pseudo-equality, he was more truly democratic than any American who had yet written fiction. I suppose it was our instinctive56 perception in the region of his instinctive expression, that made him so dear to us, and wounded our silly vanity so keenly through our love when he told us the truth about our horrible sham14 of a slave-based freedom. But at any rate the democracy is there in his work more than he knew perhaps, or would ever have known, or ever recognized by his own life. In fact, when one comes to read the story of his life, and to know that he was really and lastingly68 ashamed of having once put up shoe-blacking as a boy, and was unable to forgive his mother for suffering him to be so degraded, one perceives that he too was the slave of conventions and the victim of conditions which it is the highest function of his fiction to help destroy.
I imagine that my early likes and dislikes in Dickens were not very discriminating69. I liked 'David Copperfield,' and 'Barnaby Rudge,' and 'Bleak70 House,' and I still like them; but I do not think I liked them more than 'Dombey & Son,' and 'Nicholas Nickleby,' and the 'Pickwick Papers,' which I cannot read now with any sort of patience, not to speak of pleasure. I liked 'Martin Chuzzlewit,' too, and the other day I read a great part of it again, and found it roughly true in the passages that referred to America, though it was surcharged in the serious moods, and caricatured in the comic. The English are always inadequate71 observers; they seem too full of themselves to have eyes and ears for any alien people; but as far as an Englishman could, Dickens had caught the look of our life in certain aspects. His report of it was clumsy and farcical; but in a large, loose way it was like enough; at least he had caught the note of our self-satisfied, intolerant, and hypocritical provinciality72, and this was not altogether lost in his mocking horse-play.
I cannot make out that I was any the less fond of Dickens because of it. I believe I was rather more willing to accept it as a faithful portraiture73 then than I should be now; and I certainly never made any question of it with my friend the organ-builder. 'Martin Chuzzlewit' was a favorite book with him, and so was the 'Old Curiosity Shop.' No doubt a fancied affinity74 with Tom Pinch through their common love of music made him like that most sentimental75 and improbable personage, whom he would have disowned and laughed to scorn if he had met him in life; but it was a purely altruistic76 sympathy that he felt with Little Nell and her grandfather. He was fond of reading the pathetic passages from both books, and I can still hear his rich, vibrant77 voice as it lingered in tremulous emotion on the periods he loved. He would catch the volume up anywhere, any time, and begin to read, at the book-store, or the harness- shop, or the law-office, it did not matter in the wide leisure of a country village, in those days before the war, when people had all the time there was; and he was sure of his audience as long as he chose to read. One Christmas eve, in answer to a general wish, he read the 'Christmas Carol' in the Court-house, and people came from all about to hear him.
He was an invalid78 and he died long since, ending a life of suffering in the saddest way. Several years before his death money fell to his family, and he went with them to an Eastern city, where he tried in vain to make himself at home. He never ceased to pine for the village he had left, with its old companionships, its easy usages, its familiar faces; and he escaped to it again and again, till at last every tie was severed79, and he could come back no more. He was never reconciled to the change, and in a manner he did really die of the homesickness which deepened an hereditary80 taint81, and enfeebled him to the disorder82 that carried him. off. My memories of Dickens remain mingled83 with my memories of this quaint and most original genius, and though I knew Dickens long before I knew his lover, I can scarcely think of one without thinking of the other.
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1
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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antedated
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| v.（在历史上）比…为早( antedate的过去式和过去分词 )；先于；早于；（在信、支票等上）填写比实际日期早的日期 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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purblind
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| adj.半盲的；愚笨的 | |
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wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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enlist
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| vt.谋取(支持等)，赢得；征募；vi.入伍 | |
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abounded
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| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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subterfuges
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| n.（用说谎或欺骗以逃脱责备、困难等的）花招，遁词( subterfuge的名词复数 ) | |
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14
sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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lexicon
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| n.字典，专门词汇 | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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stint
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| v.节省，限制，停止；n.舍不得化，节约，限制；连续不断的一段时间从事某件事 | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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22
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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parlance
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| n.说法；语调 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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grotesqueness
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manifestations
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| n.表示，显示（manifestation的复数形式） | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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41
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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42
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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gainsaid
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| v.否认，反驳( gainsay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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45
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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46
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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47
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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48
aesthetic
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| adj.美学的，审美的，有美感 | |
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49
snobbishness
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| 势利； 势利眼 | |
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50
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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51
porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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52
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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53
sniffs
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的第三人称单数 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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54
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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55
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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56
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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58
formulated
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| v.构想出( formulate的过去式和过去分词 )；规划；确切地阐述；用公式表示 | |
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59
rhetoric
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| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
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60
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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61
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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lastingly
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| [医]有残留性，持久地，耐久地 | |
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discriminating
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| a.有辨别能力的 | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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provinciality
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| n.乡下习气，粗鄙；偏狭 | |
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portraiture
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| n.肖像画法 | |
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affinity
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| n.亲和力，密切关系 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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altruistic
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| adj.无私的，为他人着想的 | |
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vibrant
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| adj.震颤的，响亮的，充满活力的，精力充沛的，(色彩)鲜明的 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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