Thinking it were possible that he referred to
some local celebrity of Lagrange, I said, hesitatingly:--
"You mean--"
"Charles Dickens. Of course you've read him? Which of his books
do you like best?"
I replied with considerable embarrassment that I liked them all,--
as I certainly did.
He grasped my hand for a moment with a fervor quite unlike his
usual phlegm, and said, "That's me, old man. Dickens ain't no
slouch. You can count on him pretty much all the time."
With this rough preface, he launched into a criticism of the
novelist, which for intelligent sympathy and hearty appreciation I
had rarely heard equaled. Not only did he dwell upon the
exuberance of his humor, but upon the power of his pathos and the
all-pervading element of his poetry. I looked at the man in
astonishment. I had considered myself a rather diligent student of
the great master of fiction, but the stranger's felicity of
quotation and illustration staggered me. It is true, that his
thought was not always clothed in the best language, and often
appeared in the slouching, slangy undress of the place and period,
yet it never was rustic nor homespun, and sometimes struck me with
its precision and fitness.
Pages:
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145