A CRITIC must try to avoid being a prisoner of his time, and if we are to appreciate Oliver Twist at its full value we must forget that long shelf-load of books, all the stifling importance of a great author, the scandals and the controversies of the private life; it would be well too if we could forget the Phiz and the Cruikshank illustrations that have frozen the excited, excitable world of Dickens into a hall of waxworks, where Mr. Mantalini's whiskers have always the same trim, where Mr. Pickwick perpetually turns up the tails of his coat, and in the Chamber of Horrors Fagin crouches over an undying fire. His illustrators, brilliant craftsmen though they were, did Dickens a disservice, for no character any more will walk for the first time into our memory as we ourselves imagine him, and our imagination after all has just as much claim to truth as Cruikshank's.
Nevertheless the effort to go back is well worth while. The journey is only a little more than a hundred years long, and at the other end of the road is a young author whose sole claim to renown in 1837 had been the publication of some journalistic sketches and a number of comic operas: The Strange Gentleman, The Village Coquette, Is She His Wife? -- I doubt whether any literary Cortez at that date would have yet stood them upon his shelves. Then suddenly with The Pickwick Papers came popularity and fame. Fame falls like a dead hand on an author's shoulder, and it is well for him when it falls only in later life. How many in Dickens's place would have withstood what James called 'the great corrupting contact of the public,' the popularity founded, as it almost always is, on the weakness and not the strength of an author?
The young Dickens, at the age of twenty-five, had hit on a mine that paid him a tremendous dividend. Fielding and