And what of dear Charles Dickens--he, whom certain superfine persons who read Yellow Journalism presume to call “vulgar”? Is love, is pity, is tenderness, is faith “vulgar”? Is kindness to the poor, patience with the suffering, tolerance for all men and all creeds “vulgar”? If so, then Charles Dickens _was_ vulgar!--not a doubt of it! Few authors have ever been so blessedly, gloriously “vulgar” as he! What marvellous pictures his “power of the pen” conjures up at once before our eyes!--pathetic, playful, humourous, thrilling--rising to grandeur in such scenes as the shipwreck in _David Copperfield_; or that wonderful piece of description in the _Tale of Two Cities_, when the tramping feet of the Spirit of the French Revolution sweep past in the silence of the night! Match us such a passage in any literature past or present! It is unique in its own way--as unique as all great work must be. There is nothing quite like it, and never will be anything quite like it. And when we “go” with such great authors as these--and by this I mean, when we are determined to be one with them--we shall win such victories over our hearts and minds, our passions and desires, as shall make us better and stronger men and women.
And this brings me to a point which I have often earnestly considered. One cannot help noticing that the present system of education is fast doing away with two great ingredients for the thorough enjoyment of life, and especially the enjoyment of Literature--Imagination and Appreciation. On the school-boy or school-girl who is “coached” or “crammed,” the gates of fairyland and romance are shut with a bang. I had once the pleasure of entertaining at my house a small gentleman of eleven, fresh from his London College--he was indifferent to, or weary of life; things generally, were a “bore,” and he expressed his opinion of fairy tales in one brief word, “Rot!” Now altogether apart from that most revolting expression, which is becoming of frequent use, especially in the “upper circles,” it seemed to me a real misfortune to consider, that for this child, Hans Andersen was a sealed book, and the wonders and beauties of the _Arabian Nights_ a lost world. And in the same way I pity the older children--the grown men and women, who cannot give themselves up to the charm or terror of a book completely and ungrudgingly--who approach their authors with a carping hesitation and a doubtful preparatory sneer. By so doing they shut against themselves the gate of a whole garden of delights. Imagination is the supreme endowment of the poet and romancist. It is a kind of second sight, which conveys the owner of it to places he has never seen, and surrounds him with strange circumstances of which he is merely the spiritual eyewitness. One of the most foolish notions prevalent nowadays is that an author must personally go and visit the place he intends to describe. Nothing is more fatal. For accuracy of detail, we can consult a guide book--but for a complete picture which shall impress us all our lives long, we must go to the inspired author whose prescience or second-sight enables him to be something more than a mere Baedeker. Endless examples of this second-sight faculty could be given. Take Shakespeare as the best of them. He could never have personally known Antony and Cleopatra. He did not live in the time of Julius Cæsar. He was not guilty of murder because he described a murder in _Macbeth_. He could not have been a “fellow-student” of Hamlet’s. And where do you suppose, among the grim realities of life, he could have met those exquisite creations, Ariel and Puck, if not in the heaven of his own peerless imagination, borne to him on the brilliant wings of his own thought, to take shape and form, and stay with us in our English language for ever! Walter Scott had never seen Switzerland when he wrote _Anne of Geierstein_. Thomas Moore never visited the East, yet he wrote _Lalla Rookh_. Charles Dickens never fought a duel, and never saw one fought, yet the duel between Mr. Chester and Haredale in _Barnaby Rudge_ is one of the finest scenes ever written. Because an author is able to describe a certain circumstance, it does not follow that he or she has experienced that very circumstance personally. Very often it may be quite the contrary. The most romantic descriptions in novels have often been written by people leading very hum-drum, quiet lives of their own. We have only to think of _Jane Eyre_, and to remember the prosy, dull days passed by its author, Charlotte Brontë.