Guidelines 1992

THE FLORIDA STATE UNIVERSITY

COLLEGE OF ARTS AND SCIENCES

NATURAL, CIVILIZED, CITIZEN: DICKENS‘S CHARACTERS

AND ROUSSEAU‘S PHILOSOPHY

By

JANE PHARES

A Dissertation submitted to the

Department of English

in partial fulfillment of the

requirements for the degree of

Doctor of Philosophy

Degree Awarded:

Fall Semester, 2009

The members of the committee approve the dissertation of Jane Phares defended on

October 21, 2009 .

__________________________________

John Fenstermaker

Professor Directing Dissertation

__________________________________

University Representative

__________________________________

Committee Member

__________________________________

Eric Walker

Committee Member

Approved:

_____________________________________

Ralph M. Berry, Chair, Department of English

The Graduate School has verified and approved the above-named committee members.

v

Neil Jumonville

Fred Standley

I dedicate this to my great cloud of witnesses,

who never gave up hope that I would complete my degree, and

whose spirits continued to encourage me throughout the process:

Bill Caddell

June Smith

My aunt, Marie Kyzer

And most especially,

My beloved mother, Rachel Phares

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

My sincere appreciation goes to

Sally Allocca,

for her assistance with proofreading

and checking citations;

to the members of my committee,

Dr. Neil Jumonville, Dr. Fred Standley, and Dr. Eric Walker;

and to Dr. John Fenstermaker,

who provided invaluable help on this project,

showed unending patience,

and inspired my love for Dickens.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

List of Abbreviations .................................................................................

vi

Abstract ................................................................................................

vii

INTRODUCTION ................................................................................

1

1. A REVIEW OF THE LITERATURE ...................................................

7

2. ROUSSEAU‘S PHILOSOPHY: THE RELEVANT PRINCIPLES ....

25

3. DICKENS‘S NATURAL MAN ...........................................................

42

4. DICKENS‘S CIVILIZED MAN ...........................................................

91

5. DICKENS‘S CITIZEN .........................................................................

141

6. THE GEOGRAPHICAL SIGNIFICANCE: THE COUNTRY VS.

THE CITY ............................................................................................

166

CONCLUSION .....................................................................................

186

WORKS CITED ........................................................................................

189

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH ......................................................................

194

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LIST OF ABBREVIATIONS

Abbreviations used in citations for works of Dickens:

CC – A Christmas Carol

DC- David Copperfield

DS – Dombey and Son

GE – Great Expectations

HT – Hard Times

MC – Martin Chuzzlewit

NN – Nicholas Nickleby

OMF – Our Mutual Friend

OT – Oliver Twist

PP – Pickwick Papers

Abbreviations used in citations for works of Rousseau:

SC – Social Contract

ix

ABSTRACT

This dissertation presents evidence, using the vehicle of Jean-Jacques Rousseau‘s

philosophy, that Charles Dickens remained an optimist, contrary to critical opinion that claims he

became a dark pessimist during the latter half of his life. Rousseau and Dickens shared a belief

in the innate goodness of humankind and, if not in the perfectibility of humanity, at least in the

redemption and possibility of betterment both of the individual, and through the individual, of

society. Critical connections between the two writers are examined in Chapter 1: ―A Review of

the Literature.‖

In one of his early discourses, The Origins of Inequality , Rousseau posits hypothetically

that in the early stages of human development, the ―natural man‖ existed in a state of peace and

tranquillity; his identifying characteristics were self satisfaction (in Rousseau‘s terms, amour de

soi ), contentment with only the material goods necessary to sustain himself, genuineness, a self

concept based on his own inner evaluative system, innocence (freedom from vice), and most

notably, compassion for other human beings. When humans began to gather in groups and form

societies, they evolved from natural men into ―civilized men,‖ thus developing pride ( amour

propre), a competitive nature, greed, pretension, a self concept determined by others, immoral

and/or illegal behaviors, a lack of compassion. In the more mature writings of Rousseau he

acknowledges that a return to nature is impossible, and that the only hope for the redemption of

society is individual transformation, by which the individual retains or regains natural

characteristics and exhibits them within the confines of society. The person who achieves this

type of life is the ―citizen‖ as presented in Rousseau‘s The Social Contract . While these are the

works of Rousseau in which he presents the typology, he also portrays the same characteristics in

Émile , Julie , and his first discourse. Evidence and illustrations of these types are presented in

Chapter 2: ―Rousseau‘s Philosophy: The Relevant Principles.‖

In this study, characters in Dickens are measured by the sets of characteristics set forth by

Rousseau. In each of the novels under discussion ( Pickwick Papers, Oliver Twist, Nicholas

Nickleby, Martin Chuzzlewit, A Christmas Carol, David Copperfield, Great Expectations, and

Our Mutual Friend ), at least one character represents each of the three types, natural man,

civilized man, and citizen. One character per novel is presented in each of three chapters here

(Chapter 3: ―Dickens‘s Natural Man‖; Chapter 4: ―Dickens‘s Civilized Man‖; and Chapter 5:

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―Dickens‘s Citizen‖), with references to relevant others. For each character, evidence is

presented to show that he or she displays all the characteristics of the particular type.

In addition, in Chapter 6: ―Geographical Significance: The Country vs. the City‖ the role

of geography in the natural/civilized dichotomy is discussed. Rousseau believed that rural life

(i.e., life in the country, away from the city and large numbers of people) is more conducive to

one‘s remaining natural; city life, on the other hand, leads to corruption and the development of

civilized characteristics, due to one‘s proximity to others. Dickens‘s novels contain a similar

sentiment, although as both Dickens and Rousseau concluded, life in the country (in ―nature‖)

becomes less and less possible with the advance of civilization, so one‘s only choice is to

become citizens, living naturally within the city.

Taking into consideration the survival of natural characters throughout Dickens‘s literary

corpus, as well as an increase in the number of redeemed characters (albeit in a civilized setting),

conclusions are drawn that Dickens did not lose his optimism toward the end of his life; in fact,

he presents the survival of natural goodness as possible in spite of the corruptive forces of

civilization. Like Rousseau, Dickens ultimately reinforces not only humankind‘s innate

goodness, but also its resilience and adaptability.

xi

INTRODUCTION

In an article that appeared in Temple Bar on the occasion of Dickens‘s death in July

1870, Alfred Austin said that Dickens

was for giving Man generally a chance, and many chances. In a word, he was an ardent

believer in the perfectibility of the human species. To Charles Dickens, no doubt, a belief

in human perfectibility was probably so strong that he was unable even to conceive its

negation. In that, he was the man of his epoch, and had the spirit-time throbbing within

him. (Qtd. in Collins 534)

Since the year 1833 when Charles Dickens published his first story, critics have generally been

in agreement that Dickens‘s view of humanity is optimistic. In fact, some have criticized him for

being excessively optimistic, to the point of unrealistic sentimentalism and idealism. On the

other hand, others have attributed to Dickens, at least during the last half of his career, a darkness

and pessimism that illustrate humanity as fallen, wicked, and unredeemable. Nevertheless,

according to William J. Palmer, although the settings of Dickens‘s novels become bleaker as

time passes in his novel chronology, ―Dickens‘ world view, his philosophy of man, . . . remains

consistent and optimistic‖ throughout his literary career (32).

Studies are few that examine how and from whom Dickens developed his view of

humanity. However, there are elements of Romanticism in the writings of Dickens, to the point

that he has been called a ―Romantic-Realist.‖ And indeed, Dickens was born and lived his early

years during the Romantic period. Andrew Sanders, citing an inventory of Dickens‘s

bookshelves at his home at Devonshire Terrace, states that those shelves held books of the poetry

of Wordsworth, Coleridge, Byron, and Southey, among others ( Dickens 82). But Donald S.

Stone says that even so, ―His knowledge of the Romantic poets was spotty‖ (250), and that

―Dickens was an instinctive Romantic‖ (250), rather than intentionally following the great poets

and essayists of the period. It stands to reason, however, that he could have inherited some of

the optimistic views of the Romantic writers, along with the views of the eighteenth-century

writers whose works he also read. Palmer goes on to say that ―Dickens‘ ‗vision‘ derives from an

eighteenth-century philosophical view which all his life he tried to apply to an unaccommodating

Victorian world‖ (17), indicating a disagreement with Austin that Dickens ―had the spirit-time

throbbing within him.‖ Palmer points out that Dickens‘s optimistic view of humanity was in

1

stark contrast to the Evangelical climate in which human depravity and original sin were the

buzzwords.

However, this ―philosophical view,‖ by all accounts, would not have been gleaned from

the philosophers themselves. Palmer asserts that while Dickens probably did not read the works

of Enlightenment philosophers, he did read the novels of Sterne, Fielding, and Goldsmith, all of

whom promoted similar optimistic views of humankind (21). Sanders concurs that Dickens was

not a reader of philosophical theory. Along with the books of poetry on Dickens‘s bookshelves,

Sanders notes books of drama, history, and fiction, but ―relatively little that might have been

described at the time as ‗philosophical‘ or ‗scientific‘ literature‖ ( Dickens 82). R. F. Dibble, in

his article entitled ―Charles Dickens: His Reading,‖ states that it is ―impossible to be precise in

regard to what [Dickens] read . . . He does not . . . mention any direct knowledge of the writings

of many, and we are thus left to infer such knowledge according to the law of probability‖ (334);

and according to such law, Dibble apparently found no probability that Dickens read philosophy,

with the exception of Carlyle (339). Palmer goes so far as to say that ―almost certainly, Dickens

never read Shaftesbury‘s Characteristics or Butler‘s Sermons or even Godwin‘s Enquiry

Concerning Political Justice ‖ (21), all of which propounded the ideas of natural goodness and

human perfectibility. We might also add to Shaftesbury, Butler, and Godwin the name of Jean-

Jacques Rousseau as one of the philosophical authors left unread by Dickens, but who also

espoused similar views. Francesco Casotti, in his article ―Dickens e Rousseau,‖ agrees with both

Palmer and Sanders, averring that Dickens did not read philosophical works, nor did he have the

preparation necessary to understand them and develop a passion for them. He was greatly

limited, says Casotti, by his culture when it came to the French authors, at least in the French

language; included among the authors to which he was exposed are Voltaire and Buffon, but not

Rousseau. Casotti cites three critics who have examined closely and explored in detail the

culture of Dickens—Sylvère Monod, Humphry House,, and Edgar Johnson—and notes that none

of the three mentions Rousseau 1 (281). But, Casotti insists, the contact Dickens constantly had

with the great minds of his day, including Carlyle, surely would have acquainted him with

Rousseau and his theories (281).

1 Dickens non leggeva opera di filosofia, né possedeva la preparazione necessaria per intenderle e appassionarcisi. E

limitata pare assai la sua cultura in fatto di autori francesi, o comunque di lingua francese, anche letti in traduzione:

compaiono fra essi Voltaire e Buffon, ma non Rousseau. E per citare tre critici che hanno vagliato ed esplorato

minuziosamente la cultura di Dickens, Sylvère Monod, Humphry House ed Edgar Johnson, notiamo che nessuno dei

tre ricorda il filosofo ginevrino.

2

While evidence is convincing that Dickens was not a reader of philosophy, two instances

give us reason to believe that Dickens was, indeed, at least vaguely familiar with Rousseau. But

aside from a brief reference to Rousseau in a letter to Edward Bulwer-Lytton in 1860, Charles

Dickens apparently never mentioned the eighteenth-century French revolutionary philosopher in

his writings. The only direct proof we have of his exposure to Rousseau is the fact that he

acknowledges that he drew on a passage from Rousseau‘s Confessions for A Tale of Two Cities.

Writing to Bulwer-Lytton of his sources he said, ―Rousseau is the authority for the peasant‘s

shutting up his house when he had a bit of meat‖ ( Letters IX:259). John Forster, Dickens‘s first

biographer, includes Dickens‘s statement regarding this reference (565), as have many other

biographers and critics over the years. Andrew Sanders contributes that Dickens received the

copy of Confessions as one book among ―cartloads‖ from the London Library, as a result of his

asking Thomas Carlyle for suggestions of background reading about the French Revolution

(―Cartloads‖ 40). Carlyle‘s own The French Revolution was one of Dickens‘s primary

references for A Tale of Two Cities .

We may also mention that the January 23, 1858, issue of Household Words contained an

article entitled ―Running Away‖ written by William Moy Thomas, in which the author discusses

the tendency of human beings to run away from society; he cites Rousseau as an example, along

with Jonathan Swift, Oliver Goldsmith, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, and others. Thomas gives

significant attention to Rousseau, referring to his own copy of Confessions as ―well-thumbed

when I had it, and wanting some pages at the end,‖ and relating an episode of Rousseau‘s

running away that Thomas sees as particularly formative for the philosopher (134). We may

assume that as the editor of Household Words , Dickens would have read this essay and would

thus have been indirectly exposed to Rousseau through Thomas, in addition to his own reading

previously documented.

By clarifying simply the elements of Rousseau‘s philosophy relevant here, we may see

how comparison and connection with Dickens is plausible. As has been insinuated, Rousseau

believed that humans are naturally good, that society/civilization is responsible for their

corruption, and that ultimately, humans are redeemable and perfectible. These ideas were first

set forth in his Discourse on the Origins of Inequality (1755), and were expounded in his

subsequent works, notably Julie (1761), Émile (1762) , and The Social Contract (1762).

Rousseau also includes as elements of his philosophy a belief in the restorative properties of

3

solitude, nature, and rural life. In Origins of Inequality , Rousseau contrasts the fictional being he

calls ―natural man‖ with so-called ―civilized man.‖ (We must note here that the term ―noble

savage‖ is not Rousseau‘s; while he does occasionally speak of the natural man as a savage, this

term was originated by John Dryden decades earlier, and was not used by Rousseau. The

significance of this point will become clearer presently.) Rousseau‘s natural man is not the Zulu

warrior, the Native American, or the South Sea aborigine; instead, he is a being described as

Rousseau imagined him, before the coming of industry, agriculture, progress, and civilization.

No such actual being exists nor existed, and therefore Rousseau‘s natural man is admittedly only

a philosophical construct rather than a historical reality. However, Rousseau‘s theory indicates

that this fictional natural man had a particular set of desirable characteristics, including a

nonviolent nature, which logically disappeared as civilization encroached upon him. Thus, he

evolved into Rousseau‘s civilized man, whose qualities may be seen to be the undesirable

opposite of those exhibited by the natural man. Rousseau‘s philosophy of the nature of

humankind is summed up in the oft-quoted opening statement of Émile : ―Everything is good as

it leaves the hands of the Author of things; everything degenerates in the hands of man‖ (37).

Chapter 2 contains a more in-depth examination of the relevant principles of Rousseau‘s theory.

Some critics claim that Dickens directly and unequivocally rejected the philosophy of

Rousseau, citing as evidence Dickens‘s essay ―The Noble Savage,‖ which appeared in the 11

June 1853 issue of Household Words . In this essay Dickens says, ―I beg to say that I have not the

least belief in the Noble Savage‖ (qtd. in Slater, ‗Gone Astray‘ 143). It is important to note,

however, several things about this essay. First, it is a response to the ―noble savage,‖ and not

―natural man.‖ Secondly, it does not include any reference to Rousseau, who, as mentioned

earlier, did not use this phrase. Thirdly, as Slater posits, Dickens was annoyed into writing it by

the frequent exhibition in London of native Africans, whose displays of ―howling, whistling,

clucking, stamping, jumping, tearing‖ (qtd. in Slater, ‗Gone Astray‘ 143) Dickens found

extremely offensive. Indeed, it is hard to question Dickens‘s views after reading his essay, in

which he describes the savages as ―cruel, false, thievish, murderous‖ (qtd. in Slater, ‗Gone

Astray‘ 143) and says that ―the world will be all the better when his place knows him no more‖

(qtd. in Slater, ‗Gone Astray‘ 148). However, we must bear in mind that the characteristics

exhibited by these natives (and those that the popular rumor mill attributed to them) are not those

that were set forth in Origins of Inequality , and that this noble savage bears no resemblance to

4

Rousseau‘s natural man. In fact, we might see in the chapters that follow that ―cruel, false,

thievish, murderous‖ more nearly apply to his civilized man.

Numerous critics have connected the works of Charles Dickens with the philosophy of

Rousseau, most only hypothetically, some erroneously. But a careful study of the novels of

Dickens over the span of his literary career shows that intentionally or not, consciously or not,

Dickens portrayed fictional representations over and over again of the character types that

Rousseau presented as natural man, civilized man, and later, citizen. In almost every novel,

Dickens includes a character or characters who exhibit characteristics of the ―natural‖ man, such

as simplicity, generosity, and compassion. Oliver Twist, perhaps, is the prototype; because we

see Oliver as a child, we can watch as he resists the corruptive forces around him to retain his

naturalness. But perhaps it is the natural adults who are most notable, since they have retained

these qualities and their innate goodness throughout their lives—Joe Gargery, Samuel Pickwick,

Tom Pinch, the Cheeryble Brothers, Dan Peggotty, among others—in spite of the corruption

(i.e., forces of civilization) that might have changed them. When we examine the characteristics

of civilized humanity as Rousseau perceived it to be—greed, pride, competitiveness, insincerity,

corruption, and lack of compassion—we can recognize some of the qualities for which the

Victorian Age is often criticized. Indeed, these are some of the very characteristics that Dickens

most often satirized in his novels, along with the institutions that Rousseau, too, condemned for

displaying and perpetuating these same flaws. Through characters such as Ralph Nickleby,

Uriah Heep, Bill Sikes, Jacob Marley, Seth Pecksniff, Jonas Chuzzlewit, the Lammles,

Veneerings, and Podsnaps, James Steerforth, and a host of others, Dickens portrays people who

closely fit Rousseau‘s definition of the civilized man.

Perhaps all of Dickens‘s characters fall somewhere on a continuum with the natural man

at one end and the civilized man at the other, depending on the closeness of their match to the

characteristics of each designation. But outside this continuum is another character type in

Dickens‘s novels that may be said to reflect Rousseau‘s philosophy. Like Rousseau, Dickens

also portrays characters who have fallen from grace but who have achieved through redemptive

action the state of what we might call informed innocence or new naturalness, such as Ebenezer

Scrooge, Pip, Mortimer Lightwood, Eugene Wrayburn, and Martin Chuzzlewit the younger. For

Rousseau, these were ―citizens,‖ so called in his Social Contract . For Dickens, we may say that

these characters are the redeemed. It is perhaps these characters that most clearly reflect

5

Dickens‘s belief in human perfectibility, because each of them is a notably better person at the

end of the novel than he was at the beginning.

In addition to these character types, other relevant similarities exist between Dickens and

Rousseau. As stated earlier, Rousseau also propounds a belief in the restorative properties of

solitude, nature, and rural life as part of his natural theory, mainly because ―civilization‖ only

takes place when humans are in too-close proximity to one another. While some critics would

argue that Dickens did not share such beliefs, there is evidence in his novels to suggest

otherwise.

To reiterate Palmer‘s idea quoted in the first paragraph, and to once again dispute the

statements of those who say otherwise, Charles Dickens shows in his novels throughout his

career an optimism toward humankind and a belief that humans can always move toward

perfection in spite of the corruptive influences of ―civilized‖ society. In these beliefs, as

portrayed in novels from Pickwick Papers through Our Mutual Friend , we can see an indubitable

affinity between Dickens and the philosophy of Jean-Jacques Rousseau.

6

CHAPTER 1

A REVIEW OF THE LITERATURE

Because concrete connections between Charles Dickens and Jean-Jacques Rousseau are

slight, not surprisingly many critics fail to even mention Rousseau in their studies of Dickens.

Critic Edgar Johnson and biographers Fred Kaplan and Peter Ackroyd, for instance, never refer

to the philosopher. Neither does Humphry House mention Rousseau, but he does make a

connection between the young Dickens and another philosopher, Jeremy Bentham (37), noting,

interestingly enough, that ―Dickens only mentioned Bentham once in all his written work‖ (38).

At the same time, however, House notes Dickens‘s frequent use of the word ―natural‖ (referring

to the ―natural state of man‖) and says that Dickens ―always adopts the view that man as a child

of a good father is himself good, and that the evils of the world are obstructions which prevent

him from being himself. He rejected Original Sin‖ (111-112). These views are similar, if not

identical, to Rousseau‘s.

But in addition to the Dickens critics who omit Rousseau altogether, those who note only

a minor association between the two, and those who suggest but never make a direct connection,

a number of others include Rousseau as a significant component of their argument. These critics

may be divided into three categories: those who focus on Rousseau‘s ideas regarding childhood,

based on his Émile ; those who focus on his ideas regarding politics ( The Social Contract ); and

those who focus on his ideas regarding human nature (the First and Second Discourses and

Julie ). Some critics, of course, fall into more than one of these categories.

Peter Coveney was one of the first critics to explore a relationship between Dickens‘s and

Rousseau‘s ideas about childhood. In his Poor Monkey , originally published in 1957 and later

revised as The Image of Childhood (1967), Coveney traces the development of childhood in

literature from Rousseau through Dickens. He asserts that the idea of ―original innocence,‖ a

term he applies to the nature of children, ―informed the work of Blake, Wordsworth, and

Dickens,‖ and originated ―most forcefully from Rousseau‖ (xii-xiii) as a concept counter to the

long-accepted, traditional belief in original sin. Coveney traces the development of Rousseau‘s

child through Blake, Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Dickens, showing how the frail innocence of

the Romantic Child logically led to the early Victorian Child‘s victimization by society (53). As

a part of this development, Coveney shows how ―Rousseau‘s ‗natural man‘, Blake‘s ‗Vision‘,

Coleridge‘s ‗Imagination‘, and, in political thought, Burke‘s principle of ‗human nature‘, were

7

all solvents of the rationalist order of the philosophes ‖ (4) of the eighteenth century. In this

rebellion of the Romantics (and pre-Romantics) against the prevailing philosophy, Coveney

notes, the writers‘ portrayal of childhood, and sensibility, came to the forefront. Coveney

explains, ―The establishment of the child as a literary theme was everywhere closely related to

this reinstatement of Feeling . . . The cult of the child which informed the romantic literature of

childhood lay with the opposing school, with the ‗cult of sensibility‘ associated with Rousseau‖

(4). Examining in detail the presentation of this sensibility in Blake and the Romantics, Coveney

observes that ―The child in Dickens lives at the point of impact between the world of innocent

awareness and the world of man‘s insensitivity to man‖ (72). He goes on to say that Dickens

saw evil as embodied in society itself and its institutions, of which individual men are

either the innocent victims or culpable agents. But whether evil is expressed through

individuals, or through the institutions of a corrupt society, goodness is always

characterized through individuals remarkable for their generous flow of human feeling.

The quality of the characterization may change, the account become more subtle, but the

warm-hearted, generous, kindly individual is always there, suffering the oppressions of

evil, or combating the influences of an inhuman and corrupt society. (73)

The characters of Oliver Twist, Tiny Tim, and Little Nell immediately come to mind, as

Coveney continues, ―The child became for [Dickens] the symbol of sensitive feeling anywhere in

a society maddened with the pursuit of material progress‖ (74).

According to Coveney, Dickens shows an affinity with Rousseau through his belief in

natural goodness and his interest in sensibility, but also in his bold portrayal of the institutions of

society that seek to corrupt the innocence of childhood. As Rousseau says in the Second Preface

to Julie , ―Nature made them [‗beautiful souls‘], your institutions spoil them‖ ( Julie 20).

Coveney explores various institutions that ―spoil‖ the children in Dickens‘s novels: the Poor

Laws in Oliver Twist , education/schools in Nicholas Nickleby , wealth/money in Dombey and

Son , and industrialism/utilitarianism in Hard Times (71-119).

Finally, Coveney examines how Rousseauean/Romantic sensibility develops into

sentimentality in Dickens‘s children. The Romantic image of the child, Coveney says, weakens

in Dickens, pointing up a ―major part of the development of the child in nineteenth-century

fiction. The sentimentality was a new major concomitant‖ (118). But Coveney does not see this

new development as an advance in the image of childhood. He charges that Dickens

8

directed towards the child exaggerated emotions of pathos, deriving from his self-pitying

attitude to his own experience as a child . . . There is the sentimentality of sadness which

indulges the pathetic; and there is the sentimentality of optimism which idealizes. There

is, of course, that other sentimentality of the squalid . . . which, for no very evident

purpose, makes things—life, sex, industrialism, society—seem absolutely, by

sentimentalizing selection, squalid, and ‗worse than they are‘. . . (116)

Dickens, according to Coveney, indulged in all three, primarily in an effort to present an image

of himself as a child, ―at once pathetic and idealized‖ (117). In connection, Coveney states that

Dickens introduced, as part of his sentimentality, morbidity in childhood; this, Coveney says,

―became the central focus of the popular idea of Dickens‘s children‖ (119). Coveney‘s final

assessment of Dickens‘s contribution to the development of the literary image of childhood is

that it was not wholly positive. He maintains that Dickens‘s ―characters sometimes exist in a too

straightforward world of innocence and villainy. His ‗innocence‘ and ‗experience‘ have not

always the richness of emotional definition we find in Blake‘s‖ (118).

Angus Wilson, in his essay ―Dickens on Children and Childhood‖ (1970), says that ―at

first sight, Dickens‘s views of blessed childhood would seem to spring‖ from Rousseau‘s Émile ,

―the very gospel of the eighteenth century‖ (218). However, Wilson‘s discussion centers around

Dickens‘s seeming ambivalence toward Rousseau‘s tenets, as reflected in his criticism of

Thomas Day‘s Sandford and Merton , a book Dickens read as a child. Thomas Day, according to

Wilson, was supposedly a ―disciple‖ of Émile , although Day‘s character, the teacher Mr. Barlow,

teaches mere facts and has a ―continuous pedagogic (and moralizing) purpose‖ (218), very much

like Dickens‘s Mr. Gradgrind in Hard Times , and very much unlike the master in Émile . But it is

obviously not this point that is problematic, according to Wilson. Day‘s hero, Harry Sandford, is

a reflection, Wilson says, of ―the true gospel of Rousseauism‖ (218). Sandford is ―the healthy,

vigorous son of a farmer whose natural boyish goodness is contrasted with the weak, pampered,

over-civilized effeminacy of Tommy Merton . . . reared on the evils of slave labour‖ (218), yet

Dickens ―attacks Harry Sandford as a little hypocrite‖ (218), according to Wilson, thus rejecting

Rousseau. Wilson concludes his argument:

. . . The rescuing of children from their reprobate state . . . depended greatly upon that

healthy, vigorous (ultimately revolutionary, anti-aristocratic, Godwinian) view of nature

which Rousseau provided. The Wordsworthian view of children . . . is far nearer to this

9

concern for a vigorous, healthy, natural childhood than the sickly, pale little people who

are the heirs of Wordsworth in Dickens‘s pages. (219)

Of course, Dickens certainly does not present his ―sickly, pale little people‖ as the desired norm.

In indicating that Dickens departs from Rousseau in virtually ignoring the hale and hearty, farm-

grown children of his day, Wilson fails to give adequate attention to the fact that one of

Dickens‘s main objectives was to show the corruptive effects of society‘s institutions on

children, a view certainly in keeping with Rousseau‘s philosophy.

Mark Spilka, using Coveney‘s work as impetus, also explores the development of

childhood as a theme in literature in his ―On the Enrichment of Poor Monkeys by Myth and

Dream; or, How Dickens Rousseauisticized and Pre-Freudianized Victorian Views of

Childhood‖ (1984). In fact, Spilka‘s work contains striking similarities to Coveney‘s,

investigating as he does the same developmental trajectory through the Romantic poets, Dickens,

and on to Freud. Rousseau, he says, was the first to present the child ―as a being important in

itself . . . a self-active soul endowed with natural tendencies to virtue which needed careful

nourishment‖ (164). In short, Rousseau replaced the ―severe Christian doctrine of Original Sin

. . . with another Christian doctrine, that of Original Innocence or natural virtue‖ (164).

According to Spilka, the English Romantics, ―cultivators of solitude and communion

with nature and with natural types like peasants and children‖ (165) ―transposed this doctrine

into poetry‖ (165), and the Victorian novelists, most notably Dickens, ―who are essentially

urban, social, or immersed in social and civic conflict‖ (165), transposed it from the work of the

Romantics. It is therefore the focus on the child, seen in Dickens as the ―infantile perspective‖

of David Copperfield, Oliver Twist, and Pip, that is the connecting thread.

Spilka makes another significant point in regard to Rousseau‘s influence on Dickens. He

first says,

It was Dickens who first identified with the childhood victims of social injustice, and

who presented from their point of view, and with the emotional honesty, the innocent

directness, the touching vulnerability which can be expressed through that perspective,

the absurdities, tyrannies, and obtuseness of the adult social world. (169)

Spilka goes on to say:

He [Dickens] uses Rousseau, as it were, as his entering wedge in that assault on our other

10

middle-class predilections. Thus Obedience and Forbearance, Diligence and Factuality,

are often challenged by his childhood victims of adult inequities. When offered poor

nutrition or unrewarding labor or the impoverished abstractions of utilitarian science,

these self-active claimants of Rousseauistic rights win our assent by demanding richer

fare. (170)

Emphasizing Rousseau‘s ―self-active‖ nature of children as well as his revolutionary overtones,

Spilka, at least as convincingly as Coveney, presents a clear link between Rousseau and Dickens.

Malcolm Andrews has authored two works in which he discusses Dickens‘s views of

childhood and his connection with Rousseau. In his book Dickens and the Grown-Up Child

(1994), he places much emphasis on a link between Dickens‘s views of childhood and

eighteenth-century theories of primitivism, that is, of the Noble Savage. However, in his

discussion of the Noble Savage theory, he makes no mention of Rousseau. Andrews asserts,

―Children in Dickens‘s fiction are often presented as little newcomers from a pre-lapsarian

world, bewildered as they try to make their way through the streets of Victorian London‖

( Grown-Up Child 9), a presentation that can be traced back to ―eighteenth-century primitivism,

mediated through the writings of the early Romantics‖ ( Grown-Up Child 9). Perhaps Andrews

sees Rousseau as one of these mediators, although he does not name him.

Later in this argument, Andrews does make a direct connection between Dickens‘s views

of childhood and Rousseau‘s ―emphatic belief in the importance of respecting the early natural

impulses of the child‖ as expressed in Émile ( Grown-Up Child 23). Andrews says that Dickens

―[regarded] as the proper culture of childhood . . . the cultivation of the sentiments and

affections, playing with toys, knowledge of the world of fairy-tale,‖ a viewpoint that perfectly

coincides with Rousseau‘s belief that parents should ―Leave childhood to ripen in [their]

children‖ ( Émile 89, qtd. in Grown-Up Child 84). This concept, of course, is applicable to both

men‘s theories of education, but as Andrews‘ title indicates, many of Dickens‘s fictional children

are forced by life circumstances to mature more quickly than is natural.

In the article on childhood in The Oxford Reader’s Companion to Dickens (published in

1999), Andrews no longer points to primitivism as an influence on Victorian ideas of childhood,

at least not Dickens‘s. Instead, he refers to the two attitudes toward children that were

predominant in the Victorian era, attitudes he cites from Walter Houghton‘s The Victorian

Frame of Mind (1957). Houghton had said that ―Rousseau and Wesley can be thought of as the

11

immediate fountainheads of the two great streams of Victorian morality‖ (267). Andrews says,

as Houghton before him, that John Wesley represents the view of childhood ―as a condition of

innate depravity,‖ and Rousseau represents the view that childhood is ―a period of natural

innocence and purity‖ (―Childhood‖ 87); both views, according to Andrews, ―had by Dickens‘s

time become popular clichés‖ (―Childhood‖ 88). Thus, Andrews adds, ―These contradictory

valuations constituted Dickens‘s ideological heritage in terms of his attitudes toward childhood‖

(88). However, Andrews goes on to say that ―Dickens is held to be the Victorian champion of

the Rousseauesque-Romantic idealization of childhood‖ (―Childhood‖ 88), in spite of the view

often illustrated in his novels that children are ―naterally wicious‖ ( GE 26). Andrews notes that

Rousseau‘s views of childhood became popularized as the belief that from a child‘s ―earliest

days it [is] prey to the corrupting influence of civilization with its unnatural restraints and

enervating luxuries‖ (―Childhood‖ 87); this idea, of course, is integral to the novels of Dickens.

Finally, Arthur A. Adrian corroborates and strongly states the conclusion that Dickens

saw childhood more as Rousseau did and less like Wesley. In his essay ―Dickens‘s Crusade for

Children‖ (1999), Adrian says, ―Dickens followed a tradition directly opposed to the Puritan and

Wesleyan view of the child as inherently depraved. He upheld the cult of innocence, which

stressed primeval goodness and natural piety‖ (57), a view ―deriving its inspiration from

Rousseau‖ (57). Adrian leaves his argument at this, without any qualifications.

A second focus of Dickens/Rousseau critics is politics. There would seem to be a logical

connection between the two men, whether or not they agreed in principle, with regard to the

French Revolution. Rousseau is widely credited as the father of the revolution. Dickens wrote a

novel about it, A Tale of Two Cities , and borrowed from Rousseau in the writing of it; however,

most critics agree that Dickens was not a revolutionist. In fact, A. E. Dyson claims that there is

―an absolute rebuff in this novel to any revolutionary idealism, especially to the romantic

primitivism with roots in Rousseau and the eighteenth century. . . which has sustained optimistic

revolutionists before and since‖ (217). Dyson also says that Dickens understands ―that while

consistent violation of justice and humanity produces revolution, revolution produces a more

dreadful violation of justice and humanity in its turn‖ (217), a premise that is vividly portrayed in

A Tale of Two Cities . In contrast to the ―left-wing‖ beliefs of the revolutionists, Dickens,

according to Dyson, was ―conservative in his belief that social forms and laws should not be

simply overthrown or rejected, but criticized and reformed from within . . .‖ (217). At the same

12

time, Dyson asserts that Dickens had little faith that human nature would be the means of

ameliorating the condition of society; in fact, Dyson goes on to say, ―No reformer has ever been

less utopian than he‖ (217-218).

A discussion of Dickens‘s political views necessarily overlaps the discussion of his views

of human nature, as evidenced by the final point in the previous paragraph. It seems logical that

society, made up of human beings, is the sum of its parts, but for both Dickens and Rousseau,

this assumption is problematic. In his article ―Dickens e Rousseau‖ (1969), Francesco Casotti

posits, among other ideas, that both men struggled with the same contradictions: Why, if all

(including humanity) is good when it is in the hands of the Creator, does it degenerate in the

hands of man? Why is a society wicked if the people of which it is composed are essentially

good? (Casotti 281). Casotti says that whereas Dickens stops short of addressing this

contradiction, Rousseau makes a forceful effort to resolve this paradox, as shown in the Second

Discourse, in which he diagnoses the ailments of humankind, and in The Social Contract , in

which he presents his remedy 2 (281). It is on this point, according to Casotti, that Rousseau and

Dickens part political ways. Rousseau, he says, is recognized unanimously as the founder and

authorized theorist of democracy in the modern world, or at least of the French type of

democracy: he is the ―Marx of Jacobin democracy‖ (281). Dickens, however, distrusts

democracy, according to Casotti, at least the kind of democracy with a parliamentary structure 3

(281).

Casotti‘s essay is one of the most in-depth discussions of Dickens‘s relationship to

Rousseau available to modern scholars. He analyzes several novels with regard to Rousseau‘s

(and Dickens‘s) ideas of the natural man, ideas that Casotti shows to be fundamental to both

men‘s political stances but more so, perhaps, to Dickens‘s. Dickens obviously did not deny that

contemporary society needed reform; in fact, he worked throughout his adult life to effect it, but

he did not believe that society in general was ruined at the core. He believed, like Rousseau, that

humans are good upon their creation, and that the degeneration takes place in and as a result of

society; but Casotti goes on to say that Dickens did not believe that this degeneration is so severe

2 Non è possible negare che Rousseau, lungi dall‘arrestarsi, come farà il romanziere inglese, alle contraddizioni,

compirà un energico sforzo per liberarsene: dal secondo Discours , che contiene la diagnosi del male, al Contrat

social che ne rappresenterebbe i rimedi.‖

3 Rousseau è riconosciuto unanimamente il fondatore e teorico autorizzato della democrazia nel mondo moderno o,

almeno, della democrazia di tipo francese: il Marx della democrazia giacobina. Dickens, invece sebbene ―ami du

people‖ non ha fede nella democrazia, specie poi se di struttura parlamentare.

13

as to make impossible man‘s reclaiming the original ―idea divina‖ 4 (292-293). Indicating,

contrary to Dyson, that there is a utopian strain in Dickens, Casotti concludes his essay by

saying that Dickens‘s alternative to Rousseau‘s revolution was not political at all; his means of

improving society was by the patient laboring to cultivate, from the inside, the individual man 5

(293).

In his lengthy discussion of Dickens‘s reflection of Rousseau‘s philosophy of human

nature, Casotti takes as his basic premise the belief stated above, that humans are good when

they are created, but are corrupted by society. Casotti draws a contrast between the truly and

(according to some critics) unnaturally good characters, such as the Cheeryble Brothers, John

Jarndyce, Esther Summerson, Mark Tapley, Tom Pinch, Florence and Paul Dombey, Joe

Gargery, and Biddy, and those along a continuum of wickedness, such as Ralph Nickleby, Mrs.

Nickleby, Pecksniff, Old Dombey, James Carker, Miss Havisham, and Estella. In his discussion,

however, Casotti only skims the surface of Rousseau‘s criteria for ―natural‖ and ―civilized.‖ He

mentions that the good characters do not necessarily look for solitude, nor do they return to a

state of nature, but they demonstrate with their actions that goodness is present and feasible even

in an imperfect politico-social system 6 (285). Later in his essay, he returns to this idea,

conceding that several of Dickens‘s characters retreat to the country at the end of the novels.

Except for these brief mentions, Casotti employs his own defining characteristic to determine

which are Dickens‘s good characters: these men and women, rarely the principals according to

Casotti, serve as ―points of light,‖ either concealed or obvious, that illumine the main characters 7 ,

as the Cheerybles do Nicholas Nickleby (285). While this appears to be a valid theory,

supported well by Casotti, there is no corresponding idea for it in Rousseau.

In the final pages of his essay, Casotti concludes that ―Rousseau and Dickens, one in his

philosophical conclusions, the other in the achievement of his novels, are almost always in

4 Benché, dunque, Dickens non neghi che la società a lui contemporanea abbia bisogno di riforme e, anzi, si sforzi di

collaborare ad esse come può, egli non crede che la società in genere sia guasta alla radice . . . Tutto ciò che è uscito

buono dale mani dell‘Autore di tutte le cose degenera, certo, fra le mani dell‘uomo; ma questa degenerazione non è

tale che sia impossibile risalire all originaria idea divina.

5 Dickens . . . sente che conformarsi ad essa non si può mediante rivoluzioni politiche o costituzionali

laboriosamente escogitate come nel Contrat social , ma pazientemente lavorando a coltivare, dall‘interno, la pianta

uomo.

6 Senza dubbio l‘individuo uscito buonon dale mani del Creatore, in Dickens non cerca la solitudine o il ritorno allo

stato di natura ma dimostra, con la sua azione, che la bontà è attuale e attuabile anche in un sistema politico-sociale

imperfetto come il nostro.

7 L‘individuo, poi, buono per sé stesso, costituisce, nel romanzo dickensiano, sempre un punto di luce, più o meno

nascoto o evidente, che illumine gli altri.

14

agreement. Man, leaving the hands of the Creator, is good, and society ruins him‖ 8 (291). The

only significant point of divergence between the two men, according to Casotti, is in their

response to this belief. Rousseau, he says, thought that only the wealthy in his contemporary

society could receive an education, while the poor, the general masses, were forced to follow

their paternal trades. As a result of this inequity (along with other personal reasons), Rousseau

broke with society. It must be noted here, however, since Casotti does not make the point, that

Rousseau states that

The poor man does not need to be educated. His station gives him a compulsory

education. He could have no other. On the contrary, the education the rich man receives

from his station is that which suits him least, from both his own point of view and that of

society. . . Let us, then, choose a rich man [to educate]. We will at least be sure we have

made one more man, while a poor person can become a man by himself. ( Émile 52)

In spite of many such statements in Rousseau‘s works regarding the superiority of the peasants

and common people, Casotti seems to claims that Rousseau did not advocate the free education

of the lower classes. Citing this as a bone of contention between Rousseau and Dickens, Casotti

states that Dickens ―firmly refused such social pessimism‖ 9 (291), and believed that ―Virtue

shows quite as well in rags and patches as she does in purple and fine linen‖ (qtd. in Casotti

291), as well as that ―every beautiful object in external nature claims some sympathy in the

breast of the poorest man who breaks his scanty loaf of daily bread‖ (qtd. in Casotti 291-292).

Thus, as Casotti goes on to paraphrase Dickens, the poorest man displays not only ethical virtue,

but he is also a good candidate for aesthetic and religious education, or, in short, complete

education 10 (292). A close examination of Rousseau‘s works will find not a disagreement, as

Casotti infers, but corroboration of Dickens‘s very point here.

Myron Magnet, along with Casotti, provides us a segue from the political philosophy to

the nature of humankind. Magnet‘s analysis of Dickens‘s understanding of the ―nature and

function of society‖ (5) found in his Dickens and the Social Order (1985), again necessarily

8 Rousseau e Dickens, uno nelle sue connlusioni filosofiche, l‘altro nelle realizzazioni dei suoi romanzi, vadano

quasi sempre d‘accordo. L‘uomo, uscito dale mani del Creatore, è buono e la società lo guasta.

9 Ma dove il romanziere inglese è più lontano o, meglio, si stacca nettamente dal filosofo ginevrino è nel rifiuto

deciso di quell pessimismo sociale che ispirava al Rousseau un‘azione di rottura con la società del tempo. Il

Rousseau pensava che solo ai ricchi, nella società a lui contemporanea, si potesse dare una libera educazione. Gli

altri, i poveri, la gran massa degli uomini, sono, dalla loro stessa condizione, forzati ad addestrarsi al mestiere

paterno . . .

10 . . . Non è solo virtuoso di virtù etica, ma anche un buon soggetto di educazione edtetica e religiosa, o insomma,

di educazione integrale.

15

combines these two philosophical concepts. Magnet, however, unlike many other critics, begins

with the assertion that Dickens ―concluded that aggression was an inborn instinct, uninhibited by

anything in man‘s ‗natural‘ constitution and continually threatening to make human life into the

universal war that Hobbes‘s myth of the state of nature imagines it originally was‖ (5).

Therefore, according to Magnet, Dickens consequently concluded that the civilized state is

desirable to the natural one. Magnet cites evidence from Nicholas Nickleby , Barnaby Rudge , and

Martin Chuzzlewit to support this point. In fact, he states that in Barnaby Rudge , ―Dickens

discovers that the great force serving to restrain and neutralize human nature‘s inherent

aggressiveness is civilization, externally embodied in society and internally institutionalized

within the mind of every civilized individual‖ (5). This premise is arguable if we define

civilization as Rousseau did, but Magnet does not include any mention of Rousseau in this part

of his argument.

In the other major part of Magnet‘s study, he attempts to prove not only that Dickens

champions the civilized over the natural, but also that Rousseau does. Magnet discusses the

opening paragraphs of Chapter 36 of Nicholas Nickleby , in which Mr. Kenwigs muffles the

doorknocker due to Mrs. Kenwigs‘s confinement. The narrator says, ―There are certain polite

forms and ceremonies which must be observed in civilised life, or mankind relapse into their

original barbarism‖ ( NN 437). Magnet claims that this passage ―demonstrates beneath its

comedy how consciously Dickens is examining the difference between ‗civilized life‘ and

mankind‘s ‗original barbarism,‘ and it registers his belief that society evolved out of a barbarous,

Hobbesian state of nature‖ (39). Perhaps Magnet misses Dickens‘s irony here. Taking into

account Dickens‘s attitudes toward pretentious gentility throughout his novels, it seems highly

unlikely that this passage is not satirical on Dickens‘s part.

Magnet also draws on Rousseau‘s philosophy to make another point regarding Nicholas

Nickleby . He paraphrases Rousseau‘s ―account of the origin of self-consciousness,‖ in which he

says that ―self-consciousness arose . . . at the moment when, having abandoned their primeval

solitude and having newly formed themselves into bands, primitive men began to compare

themselves to each other. . . Self consciousness, in this view, is a product of one‘s relation to

others. . .‖ (25). Magnet uses this point to show that Ralph Nickleby‘s conscious efforts to

achieve (or preserve) his authenticity by rejecting the opinions and judgments of others are

doomed to failure. Magnet says,

16

Absolute authenticity, impervious to the opinions of others and with all the solidity of a

fact of nature, is thus the prerogative only of an unreflecting creature like the original

natural man of Rousseau‘s Discourse on Inequality ; and such a creature avoids

experiencing his identity as problematic not because he is exempt in his solitariness from

the hypocrisy inherent in social life, but rather because he has not yet developed a sense

of himself as a self. . . (25)

In other words, Ralph is inherently unable to achieve absolute authenticity because he has

already become self-conscious. Thus, Magnet says, he finds not ―emancipation from society, but

only another position taken with respect to it‖ (26). In this section of his analysis, Magnet seems

to take for granted the truth of Rousseau‘s philosophy, especially as it applies to Ralph Nickleby.

One of the flaws in Magnet‘s study is his use of the theories of Monboddo to define

Rousseau‘s natural man. Lord Monboddo is linked most notably to the natives of the South Sea

islands, observed on his trip there in the 1770s. Magnet expands this group of ―barbarian

peoples‖ to include the natives of America and Africa, as well as the deaf, infants, idiots,

orangutans, and Barnaby Rudge (76). It must be emphasized that in describing his natural man,

Rousseau was not attempting to describe any specific living beings. His essay on the Origins of

Inequality is purely theoretical, although he does explore what role native islanders and others

like them play in his theory, due to the continual attention given by explorers to this concept

during the eighteenth century.

But Magnet quickly moves from this point to say:

Dickens has about the natural man he presents in Barnaby the same kind of ambivalence

that Rousseau has about the natural man of the Second Discourse . Both writers see

qualities to value positively in their natural men—health, strength, freedom from guilt

and vainglory, exemption from modern social life‘s perversions and insincerity—but both

ultimately take a stand on the same essentially negative judgment. (78)

Magnet says that both Rousseau and Dickens consider natural man to be ―a stupid and

unimaginative animal‖ unless he is civilized by society into ―an intelligent being and a man‖ ( SC

19), quoting Rousseau in application to both. He fails, however, to include the rest of

Rousseau‘s statement which indicates that man ―would be bound to bless continually the happy

moment which took him from it for ever. . . ― ― did not the abuses of this new condition often

degrade him below that which he left [italics mine] . . .‖ ( SC 19). Rousseau‘s entire

17

philosophical corpus sets forth the theory that nature is preferable to civilization; however, given

the fact that life in nature is no longer an option, people in society must live by a ―social

contract,‖ which provides a way for them to coexist in a way that is beneficial to all. But, as the

quote above shows, Rousseau maintains that there are dangers inherent to living in society.

Dickens also shows how human nature is degraded in and by society; additionally he shows the

barbarism inherent in the ―society‖ of the mob in both Barnaby Rudge and A Tale of Two Cities.

It should be noted, as Magnet points out, that Dickens himself mentions Monboddo in the

first chapter of Martin Chuzzlewit , along with J. F. Blumenbach, a comparative anatomist of the

late eighteenth-early nineteenth centuries. Magnet says that these two theorists had opposing

theories regarding the origin of humanity, but that they agreed that ―the authentically human

creature is by definition a social creature‖ (212). This, however, is not Dickens‘s point at all.

His narrator says,

Firstly, that it may be safely asserted, and yet without implying any direct participation in

the Monboddo doctrine touching the probability of the human race having once been

monkeys, that men do play very strange and extraordinary tricks. Secondly, and yet

without trenching on the Blumenbach theory as to the descendants of Adam having a vast

number of qualities which belong more particularly to swine than to any other class of

animals in the creation, that some men certainly are remarkable for taking uncommon

good care of themselves. ( MC 6)

Dickens‘s satire here seems obvious. Perhaps many of his characters display characteristics of

monkeys or swine, but most such characters would be considered ―civilized‖ by Rousseau‘s

definition.

After setting up the Dickens-Hobbes connection in his first chapters, Magnet turns his

attention in much of the rest of his work to what he perceives to be similarities between Dickens

and Rousseau. But Magnet‘s judgment of Dickens‘s attitude toward ―natural man‖ is based on

very limited evidence, much of which fails to take into account Dickens‘s propensity for irony

and Rousseau‘s true definition of ―natural‖ and ―civilized.‖ In short, Magnet‘s comparison

seems a bit forced.

Over the past half-century, several writers have explored to a greater or lesser degree an

association between Dickens‘s theory of human nature and that of Rousseau. One of the first to

claim this association was A. O. J. Cockshut, who considers Dickens ―the founder of our modern

18

version of Rousseauist innocence‖ (12). Cockshut says that Dickens influenced general thought

regarding ―the fundamental decency of the working class‖ (12), thus implying a connection

between Dickens‘s working class characters and Rousseau‘s peasants. Earle Davis delves a little

more deeply into this association:

He [Dickens] was a Romanticist; he followed what had been taught by Rousseau and

Godwin as he understood their doctrines. Basically this meant to him that man should

trust his instincts because his instincts are naturally good. If man lets Nature take its

course, happiness will result. Nature, according to this doctrine, will always achieve

perfection if unhampered by decaying, man-made traditions which interfere with

progress. (93)

Using this as his basic premise, Davis explores in The Flint and the Flame its reflection within

the novels of Dickens. Continuing to declare Dickens a ―Romanticist,‖ he says that ―Dickens,

like the early Wordsworth, believed that children are noble in their innocence before they mature

and learn evil from their surroundings and other men‖ (96), an idea that once again echoes the

philosophy of Rousseau. Davis uses Oliver Twist as his exemplar, saying that Oliver ―is one of

those ideally good individuals who retain their primal nobility instinctively‖ (97). In addition to

Oliver, Davis points to other characters ―who are not in complete control of their faculties . . .

Dickens‘ psychological cases are children who never grew up. They retain their connection with

innocence, refuse any association with the evils of a world they do not understand . . .‖ (97). To

illustrate his point, Davis points to Smike, Tom Pinch, Mr. Dick, and Barnaby, who, as

previously noted, Magnet claims is virtually an animal rather than an innocent child.

Beyond his assertion of Dickens‘s initial connection with Rousseau‘s theories, Davis

explores how this philosophy apparently evolved for Dickens into a ―Dialectic Romanticism‖

(92), based on his seemingly ambivalent feelings toward the ―noble savage.‖ As was discussed

previously, the ―noble savage‖ was not a term Rousseau coined, although many critics use the

term and the name of Rousseau interchangeably. Davis attempts to explain Dickens‘s dilemma

as follows, saying that Dickens‘s ―Noble Savage‖ article in Household Words

is a violent denunciation of such a concept. Most followers of the Romantic movement at

some time or other came up against a certain contradiction in terms. If they admired

Rousseau, they looked for perfection in Nature and the unfettered instincts; if they

followed Godwin, they expected perfection to come from gradual development of man

19

and from social betterment. The Rousseauite may be said to have believed in the noble

savage, the noble idiot, and the noble child; the Godwinian objected to the noble savage.

(101)

Davis implies that Dickens, therefore, is more the Godwinian, but he then asks these questions:

―Why should the author hate the noble savage and still believe that Oliver Twist has an

instinctive nobility which wards off all evil? If Oliver does what is right by instinct, why would

not a savage, presumably closer to Nature, have the same instincts?‖ (101). According to Davis,

Dickens‘s answer to this basic question did not come until later in his life. At that point, Davis

says, Dickens came to the conclusion that

man may remain good if he exercises his free will and resists the temptations of his

environment. This is what Oliver must have done. The same opportunity could be seized

by a noble savage, a noble cockney, a noble lord, or a noble laborer, each of whom could

retain his early innocence if he desired to do so. What Dickens apparently resented in his

attacks on the noble savage was the assumption that a man who lived close to Nature was

bound to be perfect just because of his environment. (102)

The novels of Dickens prove, at least in the Dickens world, that a human may remain good and

innocent within society, that a literal return to Nature is not necessary, nor does a life in Nature

in the nineteenth century ensure that a human is good.

But these points in no way refute the theories of Rousseau, as Davis indicates. As has

been stated previously, Rousseau also knew that a literal return to Nature was impossible in light

of the advance of civilization, and would have found little fault with Dickens‘s alternative as

summarized by Davis:

The eventual course of Dickens‘s Dialectic Romanticism is now clear. Man must fight to

keep his original innocence and his instincts pure; he must overcome adverse

surroundings in order to become admirable; the main duty of intelligence is to attack

adverse circumstances and evil institutions. In novel after novel Dickens assaulted the

forces which man had built up contrary to Nature. (111)

Perhaps Rousseau was a theorist while Dickens had his boots on the ground, but contrary to

Davis‘s position, the two were basically in agreement.

Sylvère Monod, in his Dickens the Novelist , mentions Dickens‘s reference to his use of

Rousseau in A Tale of Two Cities , but does not include Rousseau in his list of French writers that

20

Dickens ―certainly read,‖ such as Voltaire and Buffon (46). At the same time, however, Monod

has this to say:

But an attempt to formulate Dickens‘ philosophy (a thing he wisely refrained from doing

himself, except for desultory maxims) indicates that he had four major tenets in his

system: 1) theoretically, man, especially isolated, natural man, is good; 2) Dickens has

clearly asserted in some of his occasional writings that he believed neither in the Noble

Savage, nor in the virtues of solitude; 3) man is exposed to all kinds of pernicious

influences (and these will be all the more pernicious as the individual‘s environment is

more highly civilized and more socially refined); 4) man is reduced to impotence as soon

as he belongs to a group. (25)

With the possible exception of point number two, Monod might be outlining the basic

philosophy of Rousseau, as well as that of Dickens, yet he never overtly makes the connection.

With regard to the second point, Monod cites, of course, Dickens‘s ―The Noble Savage‖ as

evidence that he rejected that idea, and he cites ―Tom Tiddler‘s Ground‖ as evidence that

Dickens rejected the virtues of solitude (25). But Monod then goes on to show that Dickens also

distrusted society, and saw the majority as ―likely to oppress the minority‖ (26), an idea that is

surely Rousseauean. Likewise, Monod says that Dickens‘s ―basic views will be found in the

idea that men are good, but that politics is a bad thing because it corrupts natural goodness and

tends to stimulate the selfish quest for personal satisfaction and the disregard of the common

good for the sake of private interests‖ (24), a statement that almost perfectly sums up Rousseau‘s

Second Discourse, On the Origins of Inequality .

Within the last twenty years two critics have undertaken the task of proving, unlike any

of the aforementioned writers, that Dickens flatly rejected Rousseau‘s philosophy as a result of

his trips to America, the first of which occurred in 1842. Jerome Meckier‘s Innocent Abroad:

Charles Dickens’s American Engagements (1990) is based on the following presuppositions:

Dickens believed in the possibility of utopia; he believed he would find that utopia in America;

instead he was gravely disappointed; as a result he developed a bleak world view and a lasting

pessimism. Meckier posits his perspective in the opening pages:

Reconsideration of man‘s allegedly Edenic past in terms of America‘s present led to

humbler expectations of society‘s future; it was foolish, Dickens decided, to pretend that

man had been perfect or ever could be. In short, America failed to corroborate

21

Rousseau‘s idea of a more innocent past and Victorian forecasts of a glittering tomorrow;

this double letdown was largely responsible for Dickens‘s increasing negativity, which

turned the later fictions [after Martin Chuzzlewit ]. . . into ever gloomier dystopian

pronouncements. (1-2)

This statement is based on several fallacies. First of all, Rousseau‘s ―natural man‖ has never

been described as ―perfect,‖ nor has life in nature been described so. Secondly, Rousseau was

not a utopian, and opinions are mixed as to whether or not Dickens was. At any rate, Meckier

gives no evidence that Dickens was a utopian before his trip to America. However, both Dickens

and Rousseau believed and illustrated throughout their literary corpuses that humans are capable

of achieving a type of new innocence, even within the confines of civilized society. Finally, if

Dickens was indeed repulsed by the life he found in America, there is no evidence that he

himself had based his expectations on Rousseau‘s philosophy.

Nevertheless, Jerome Meckier boldly states that ―Dickens discarded Rousseau in 1842‖

(36). Meckier seems to have based much of his opinion on his misconception that Rousseau‘s

theories indicate a belief that a utopia is possible by returning to humankind‘s natural state. If

Dickens believed that this was Rousseau‘s theory, which Meckier fails to substantiate, of course

he most likely would have rejected it. Such a return is impossible, and Rousseau makes this

point clear. Both Rousseau and Dickens instead indicate in their works that society‘s hope lies in

individual transformation. Meckier says that the people Dickens (and Martin Chuzzlewit)

encounter in America are ―in [their] natural state—in a country at an earlier phase of

development than England‖ (10), again, a misunderstanding of Rousseau‘s theory. In fact, the

society that Dickens found in America is actually not to be considered natural, but civilized by

Rousseau‘s criteria.

In his review of Meckier‘s work, John J. Fenstermaker charges that his ―language is

sometimes too dramatic‖ (125). This writer agrees. Meckier repeatedly makes statements such

as that Dickens was ―obliged to say goodbye to exalted sentiments and romantic dreams‖ (3),

that he ―abandoned as Romantic foolishness the notion of sweeping social change and a totally

transformed society‖ (18), and ―Dickens was duped by a theory of human nature garnered from

Wordsworth and Rousseau‖ (24). Meckier seems to be trying to turn Dickens‘s disdain for

American behavior ( civilized by Rousseau‘s definition) into a rejection of Rousseau‘s

22

philosophy, and in the process belies what seems to be his own particular bias against the beliefs

of Rousseau and other Romantics.

Nancy Aycock Metz also claims that Dickens‘s works, especially Martin Chuzzlewit ,

show their author‘s rejection of Rousseauean philosophy. Metz states, ―A generally well-read

man, Dickens carried with him as so much mental baggage representations of the New World

popularized by writers as various as Shakespeare, Goldsmith, Rousseau and Thomas Moore‖ (4).

Metz, however, offers no documentation that Dickens actually read any of these authors. She

argues that Dickens ―[engages], among other targets, the ideas given currency in Rousseau‘s

Discourse on Inequality (1755). . .‖ (2-3). She quotes the following passage from the Discourse :

If we see a handful of rich and powerful men at the pinnacle of greatness and fortune,

while the crowd grovels in obscurity and misery, it is because the former esteem the

things they possess only insofar as others are deprived of them, and because, without any

change in their condition, they would cease being happy if people ceased being

miserable. (Qtd. in Metz 125)

Metz presents this statement as though it is Rousseau‘s view, and notes its similarities to a view

voiced by Pecksniff in Martin Chuzzlewit :

. . . it is always satisfactory to feel, in keen weather, that many other people are not as

warm as you are . . . this . . . was quite natural, and a very beautiful arrangement; not

confined to coaches, but extending itself into many social ramifications . . . ―if every one

were warm and well-fed, we should lose the satisfaction of admiring the fortitude with

which certain conditions of men bear cold and hunger . . .‖ ( MC 116, qtd. in Metz 125)

Pecksniff goes on to say, ―And if we were no better off than anybody else, what would become

of our sense of gratitude; which . . . is one of the holiest feelings of our common nature‖ ( MC

116). What Metz fails to note, however, is that just as Dickens places the deplorable sentiment

in the mouth of his villain, Rousseau is condemning this situation, not condoning it. Both Metz

and Meckier omit the fact that most of the references to ―natural,‖ and ―nature‖ in Martin

Chuzzlewit are spoken by the villains and buffoons, characters who are certainly not reliable

spokespeople for the author‘s sentiments. Surely Metz and Meckier did not miss Dickens‘s

irony in all of these statements as Metz does in the one quoted above.

Among other comments, Metz also cites several statements that she says ―[evoke] ironic

associations with the idea of the ‗noble savage‘, as it is developed in Rousseau‘s influential

23

Discourses ‖ (388). As we have already seen, the idea of the ―noble savage‖ does not appear in

Rousseau, at least not in such terminology. But Metz cites each mention of the word ―noble‖ in

the novel as ironic, and thus a rejection of Rousseau‘s philosophy. For example, she quotes

Mark Tapley upon his greeting the friends he met on the boat to America; he says, ―You‘re

looking noble!‖ ( MC 516). Metz‘s note reads, ―The adjective evokes ironic associations with the

idea of the ‗noble savage‘, as it is developed in Rousseau‘s influential Discourses ‖ (388).

However, there is no relationship between Rousseau‘s theory and the context of this quote. Metz

simply seems determined to show that ―noble‖ equals ―noble savage,‖ ―noble savage‖ equals

Rousseau (which it does not), and thus ―noble‖ in any context is a referent to Rousseau. This

opinion is simply fallacious.

Metz and Meckier, as well as Magnet, display a very narrow understanding of the theory

of human nature that is set forth in the works of Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Unfortunately, a

significant part of their arguments is based on this understanding. Many of the critics discussed

previously perhaps would quibble with minor points of Dickens‘s philosophy in relation to

Rousseau‘s, but most would be able to reconcile the basic premises of the two. As this study

proposes to show, significant similarities exist between Rousseau and Dickens, displayed not

only in the first novels, but throughout Dickens‘s career.

24

CHAPTER 2

ROUSSEAU‘S PHILOSOPHY: THE RELEVANT PRINCIPLES

G. K. Chesterton writes, ―Rousseau, whom all his friends and acquaintances treated

almost as badly as he treated them—Rousseau does not grow merely eloquent, he grows gushing

and sentimental, about the inherent goodness of human nature‖ ( Critical Study 41). Elsewhere

Chesterton says, ―Rousseau takes too rosy a view of humanity . . .‖ ( Critical Study 7). Arthur

Melzer expresses a similar view: ―If the very mention of Rousseau‘s name often raises an

indulgent smile, that is because it is usually assumed that his famous principle is a tender-

minded, pollyannish affirmation, indeed the classic statement, of the basic goodness of human

beings as we know them‖ (15). While many such assessments are critical of Rousseau, one thing

about his philosophy is certain: It is consistent. Throughout his works, Rousseau posits the idea

that humans are naturally good, that civilization has corrupted them, that hope lies in the

individual‘s redemption and transformation or in his or her ―negative‖ education, that is, an

education designed to avoid corruptive influences.

From his earliest writings, Rousseau portrays the contrast between the natural state of

humanity and the civilized, or corrupted, state. In his First Discourse, A Discourse on the Moral

Effects of the Arts and Sciences (1750), he lays the groundwork for several ideas that he develops

more fully in subsequent works. He writes wistfully of the origins of humankind: ―One cannot

reflect on mores without taking delight in recalling the image of the simplicity of the earliest

times. It is a beautiful shore, adorned by the hands of nature alone, toward which one

continually turns one‘s eyes, and from which one regretfully feels oneself moving away‖ ( Moral

Effects 14). This recession, as the title indicates, is due to the influence of the arts and the study

and advances of science during the previous centuries, and most notably in his own century. He

asserts that none of this knowledge is necessary nor desirable, that humankind naturally has all it

needs to achieve the most important goal—Virtue. He says, ―Are your [Virtue‘s] principles not

engraved in all hearts, and is it not enough, in order to learn your laws, to commune with oneself

and, in the silence of the passions, to listen to the voice of one‘s conscience?‖ ( Moral Effects 21).

At the same time, however, seeming to contradict himself, Rousseau tells how man

―[emerges] somehow from nothing by his own efforts; [dissipates], by the light of his reason, the

shadows in which nature had enveloped him‖ ( Moral Effects 3). He speaks of ―the barbarism of

the first ages‖ ( Moral Effects 3), indicating early on that he does not advocate a return to nature,

25

which is, of course, impossible. Ideally, he says, the civilized state is an improvement over the

natural one, due to the intellectual tools utilized by civilized humanity that are undeveloped or

unknown in the natural man. However, contemporary society for Rousseau was not ideal. The

corruptive influences of the arts and sciences, according to his discourse, had brought about a

state in which humankind was, he believed, weakened in a number of ways. He says, ―While the

conveniences of life increase, the arts are perfected and luxury spreads, true courage is

enervated, military virtues disappear . . .‖ ( Moral Effects 15). He adds that humankind suffers

from ―this contagion of vain knowledge‖ ( Moral Effects 7). And to put it in even another way

that recurs in his writings, humankind is thus enslaved, although ―the sciences, letters and the

arts . . . spread garlands of flowers over the iron chains . . .‖ ( Moral Effects 3). In comparison to

this corrupted civilized state, the natural one is preferable. Rousseau preaches, ―Peoples, know

then once and for all that nature wanted to protect you from science just as a mother wrests a

dangerous weapon from the hands of her child‖ ( Moral Effects 10). His simile makes clear his

belief that nature takes care of and protects humankind from numerous evils, while civilization

throws them headlong onto the path of ruin.

Nevertheless, Rousseau suggests that there is a third condition, achievable by the

individual. He says, ―Let us leave to others the care of instructing peoples in their duties, and

confine ourselves to fulfilling our own duties well. We have no need to know more than this‖

( Moral Effects 21). In other words, he basically applies the biblical principle of removing the

beam from one‘s own eye before removing the beam from someone else‘s. Rousseau gives few

details in the First Discourse of how this third condition, preferable to both of the others, is to be

achieved; however, in his subsequent works, especially in Émile , he supplies a meticulous ―how-

to‖ manual.

In the Second Discourse, or A Discourse on the Origins and Foundations of Inequality

Among Men (1755), Rousseau states his position outright: ―Men are wicked; melancholy and

constant experience removes any need for proof. Yet man is naturally good‖ ( Origins 147). It is

also here that Rousseau fully propounds his concept of the natural man. Whereas in the First

Discourse he examines some of the specific qualities of the civilized man resultant from the

corruptive influences of the arts and sciences, he merely alludes to the qualities of the natural

man. Actually, in reading both of the Discourses, the reader must ascertain in some cases what

those qualities are by reading the more direct catalog of the failings of the civilized man; if the

26

civilized man is pretentious and false, for example, we draw the conclusion that the natural man

is transparent and genuine. In general, however, Rousseau uses words such as ―peaceful‖ and

―innocent‖ to describe natural man, whom he often refers to as the ―savage,‖ a designation that

seems antithetical to the adjectives. He also makes the following statement: ―. . . In truth

nothing is more peaceable than man in his primitive state; placed by nature at an equal distance

from the stupidity of brutes and the fatal enlightenment of civilized man, limited equally by

reason and instinct to defending himself against evils which threaten him, he is restrained by

natural pity from doing harm to anyone, even after receiving harm himself. . .‖ ( Origins 115).

This description is significant for several reasons, not the least of which is the fact that it places

the natural man above the ―brutes,‖ thus negating the argument of some critics that Rousseau‘s

―savage‖ is little more than an animal. More specific characteristics of the natural man will be

discussed in later paragraphs.

Just as he does in the First Discourse, Rousseau shows most vividly in the Second the

effects of civilization on humankind. Here he presents his theory of how inequality was a logical

consequence of progress in civilization. But more important to our purposes here, he presents

―civilized‖ humans as having been corrupted by the process of their development, a concept that

surely appears over and over in Rousseau‘s works. Unfortunately, one of the few faculties that

the natural man possesses, that of self-improvement or perfectibility, is the ultimate cause of his

downfall. He asserts, ―. . . most of our ills are of our own making, and . . . we might have

avoided nearly all of them if only we had adhered to the simple, unchanging and solitary way of

life that nature ordained for us‖ ( Origins 84-85). Again, specific characteristics, or the ills,

resulting from this corruption will be discussed in future paragraphs.

In the Second Discourse, Rousseau makes clear that the remedy for the corruption of

civilization is not the ―return to live in the forests with the bears‖ ( Origins 153), although some

people may try this method. He instructs, however,

You who can leave your fatal acquisitions, your troubled spirits, your corrupt hearts and

your frenzied desires in the midst of cities, reclaim . . . your ancient and first innocence;

go into the woods and lose the sight and memory of the crimes of your contemporaries,

and have no fear of debasing your species in renouncing its enlightenment in order to

renounce its vices. ( Origins 153)

27

Only those who have not heard ―the heavenly voice‖ ( Origins 153), however, will throw the

baby (enlightenment) out with the bath water (vices) and abandon society as we know it. More

desirably, what Rousseau proposes for himself and others who ―are convinced that the divine

voice called the whole human race to the enlightenment and happiness of celestial intelligences‖

( Origins 153) is the life of the citizen. These people, he says, are

those who will endeavour, by the exercise of virtues which they commit themselves to

practice while learning to understand them, to deserve the eternal prize they ought to

expect for them; they will respect the sacred bonds of the societies of which they are

members; they will love their fellow-men and serve them with all their strength; they will

scrupulously obey the laws and the men who are the authors and ministers of the laws;

they will honor above all the good and wise princes who know how to prevent, cure and

relieve that mass of abuses and evils which are always ready to overwhelm us; they will

animate the zeal of those worthy rulers, in showing them without fear or flattery the

greatness of their task and the rigor of their duty . . . ( Origins 153)

Here Rousseau describes the life of the natural man within society, the one who determines to

live according to Virtue‘s mandates, and thus retain or regain the gifts with which Nature

endowed him. As we shall see, it is this man that Rousseau proposes to create in Émile , a man

who can live effectively according to Rousseau‘s Social Contract .

In the epistolary novel Julie, or The New Heloise (1760), Rousseau incorporates elements

of his philosophy within the letters written between his characters. Beginning in the Second

Preface, however, Rousseau makes this pronouncement: ―Nature made them [the ‗beautiful

souls‘ of humankind], your institutions spoil them‖ ( Julie 20). His primary spokesperson, the

tutor St. Preux, echoes this sentiment, Rousseau‘s most basic tenet: ―Nature has made everything

as good as it could be; but we want to do still better, and we spoil everything‖ ( Julie 499). He

later quotes his patron, Monsieur de Wolmar, as saying, ―All characters are good and sound in

themselves . . . There are. . . no mistakes in nature‖ ( Julie 461). The plot line of the novel is

hidden among the philosophy, but on the philosophical level we see a protagonist who is exposed

to the evils of ―civilization,‖ society, and city life, and who returns to life away from the city (in

―nature‖) to regain his natural character, becoming, in a sense, the citizen.

Rousseau also places in St. Preux‘s letters his own belief in original goodness (as

opposed to original sin) and the supreme (and usually detrimental) influence of nurture (as

28

opposed to nature) on human beings. St. Preux, again indirectly quoting Monsieur de Wolmar,

says, ―All the vices we attribute to natural disposition are the effect of the wrong shapes it has

received. There is no villain whose inclinations better channeled would not have yielded great

virtues‖ ( Julie 461). St. Preux adds that unfortunately, through education we often ―thwart

nature at every turn . . . obliterate the soul‘s great qualities, to put in their place small and

illusory ones having no reality . . .‖ ( Julie 462). St. Preux‘s views foreshadow the educational

technique that Rousseau explores meticulously in Émile .

In Julie , the rustic peasants who live near the home of Julie are considered by St. Preux to

live the life of nature. He speaks of ―their simplicity, their equanimity, and that peaceful

tranquility that makes them happy through freedom from pain rather than taste for pleasures‖

( Julie 65). He spends considerable time with them, as well as with the village inhabitants in the

Valais, and makes numerous observations of how these characteristics are exhibited ―in the

remote provinces where the inhabitants are still in possession of their natural inclinations‖ ( Julie

199). Speaking more generally, though, of the natural man, St. Preux says,

God has not breathed life into him [man] in order for him to remain immobile in a

perpetual quietism. But he has given him freedom to do good, conscience to will it, and

reason to choose it. He has constituted him the sole judge of his own acts. He has

written in his heart: do what is good for you and harmful to no one. ( Julie 315)

Later in the novel St. Preux expresses the same sentiment another way:

In creating man he [God] endowed him with all the faculties needed for the

accomplishment of what he required of him, and when we ask him for the power to do

good, we ask him for nothing he has not already given us. He has given us reason to

discern what is good, conscience to love it, and freedom to choose it. It is in these

sublime gifts that divine grace exists . . . ( Julie 561)

A large part of the novel is made up of a scathing criticism of life in society. St. Preux

leaves the de Wolmar residence for an extended stay in Paris, and reports how he himself is

corrupted by the salon society in which he participates:

. . . Thus I see disfigured that divine model I bear within me that both served as object of

my desires and as rule for my actions. . . Mortified, humiliated, dismayed to feel the

nature of man decaying in me, and seeing myself so debased from that inner grandeur to

which our enflamed hearts lifted each other, I return home in the evening prey to a secret

29

sadness, overwhelmed with a mortal disgust, and my heart empty and swollen like a ball

filled with air. ( Julie 209-210)

Julie comments, ―. . . You had improved among the peasants, and you regress among the wits‖

( Julie 248). The specific characteristics that St. Preux develops as a result of his ―civilization,‖

his foray into Parisian society, will be examined presently.

Fortunately, St. Preux returns to the country and rids himself of the debasing

characteristics he gained in the city, illustrating Rousseau‘s belief in the possibility of

redemption. However, the belief in this possibility is stated most clearly by Milord Edward, a

close friend of St. Preux. He says:

[The body‘s ills] . . . external and temporary alterations of an immortal and simple being,

fade away little by little and leave it in its original form which nothing could ever change.

Sorrow, woe, regrets, despair are short-lived pains that never take root in the soul, and

experience ever belies that sentiment of bitterness that makes us regard our sufferings as

eternal. I will say more; I cannot believe that the vices that corrupt us are more ingrained

in us than our troubles; not only do I think they disappear with the body that occasions

them; but I do not doubt that a longer life could allow men to be reformed, . . . ( Julie 320)

Milord Edward writes these words to encourage St. Preux upon his return from Paris. While St.

Preux does not become a ―citizen‖ in the sense of The Social Contract , he is now a man who

knows what it means to be ―civilized‖ and who has chosen instead a life closer to nature, a life of

Virtue.

The question that Rousseau seeks to answer in Émile (1762) is this: How does one raise

―a man among his fellows for a life in society . . .?‖ ( Émile 313). Admitting that men (and

women) of his contemporary society were more often than not unable to absent themselves from

the ―civilized‖ world, Rousseau explores the educational process that would allow a child to

develop naturally, to retain his ―original dispositions‖ ( Émile 39), and thus become a ―man of

nature‖ ( Émile 255). His objective is clarified in the following statement:

. . . Although I want to form the man of nature, the object is not, for all that, to make him

a savage and to relegate him to the depths of the woods. It suffices that, enclosed in a

social whirlpool, he not let himself get carried away by either the passions or the opinions

of men, that he see with his eyes, that he feel with his heart, that no authority govern him

beyond that of his own reason . . . ( Émile 255)

30

Throughout the treatise, Rousseau chronicles his tutelage of Émile, explaining best practices to

employ during each stage of human development in order to achieve this goal, but he sums up

what the teacher needs to do above all else: ―What must be done is to prevent anything from

being done‖ ( Émile 41).

One of the most often-quoted statements of Rousseau‘s belief in original goodness is the

opening sentence of Émile : ―Everything is good as it leaves the hands of the Author of things;

everything degenerates in the hands of man‖ ( Émile 37). But lest his readers miss his point, he

reiterates it later in the work by saying, ―There is no original perversity in the human heart.

There is not a single vice to be found in it of which it cannot be said how and whence it entered‖

( Émile 92).

In order to make clear what the pupil is being spared, Rousseau describes the effects of

civilization. He says,

Prejudices, authority, necessity, example, all the social institutions in which we find

ourselves submerged would stifle nature in him and put nothing in its place. Nature there

would be like a shrub that chance had caused to be born in the middle of a path and that

the passers-by cause to perish by bumping into it from all sides and bending it in every

direction. ( Émile 37)

Again Rousseau makes the point of the importance of a type of negative nurture—the protection

of the pupil from the influences that would draw him out of nature. And the student should be

taught the dangers of civilized society: ―. . . Let him see that society depraves and perverts men;

let him find in their prejudices the source of all their vices. . .‖ ( Émile 237). Of course, as Émile

is a manual for civilization prevention, we do not see a particular example of the civilized man,

nor do we see the redeemed man, or the citizen. In fact, Rousseau says, ―Forced to combat

nature or the social institutions, one must choose between making a man or a citizen, for one

cannot make both at the same time‖ (39). In Émile , his concern is making a man.

In The Social Contract , also published in 1762, Rousseau turns away from natural man as

his primary concern and discusses civil man and his role in society and in government. His

position here seems to indicate a major shift in his thinking, admitting as it seems he does that

man, ―everywhere . . . in chains‖ ( Contract 2), has left nature behind for good. Here he no

longer glorifies the simple, solitary man of nature; instead he discusses the ―citizen,‖ one part of

the whole, the man who willingly submits to the general will and the common good. Instead of

31

presenting the development of man from the man of nature to the man of society as being a result

of corruption and therefore bad, he indicates that this development is certainly desirable:

The passage from the state of nature to the civil state produces a very remarkable

change in man, by substituting justice for instinct in his conduct, and giving his actions

the morality they had formerly lacked. Then only, when the voice of duty takes the place

of physical impulses and right of appetite, does man, who so far had considered only

himself, find that he is forced to act on different principles, and to consult his reason

before listening to his inclinations. ( Contract 19)

He goes on to praise in no uncertain terms the superiority of the ―civil state‖ over the natural

state, claiming that in making the transition, man trades in the ―advantages which he got from

nature‖ for ones by which ―his faculties are so stimulated and developed, his ideas so extended,

his feeling so ennobled, and his whole soul so uplifted, that . . . he would be bound to bless

continually the happy moment which took him from it for ever, and, instead of a stupid and

unimaginative animal, made him an intelligent being and a man‖ ( Contract 19). This ―stupid

and unimaginative animal‖ is a far cry from the creature Rousseau describes in the Second

Discourse. He does concede, however, ―the abuses of this new condition [civilization] often

degrade him below that which he left [nature]‖ ( Contract 19). After this brief reference to the

corrupted civilized state, Rousseau turns his attention to the ideal society and government. The

man who thus surrenders himself to this society is redeemed, in a sense, although not by a return

to nature or the life of nature.

It seems, then, that the only one of Rousseau‘s major works that portrays the return of a

civilization-corrupted man to a state of nature is Julie ; however, there is a concomitant idea in

his philosophy that suggests, perhaps, that a geographical return from city to country, from

crowded streets to solitude, can help one regain the natural life and values. Of course, this is

seen most vividly in Julie , but the contrasts between city life and country life are highlighted

throughout Rousseau‘s works. In fact, it was in the gathering together of natural men into groups

who eventually formed towns and then cities that corruption took its full toll. This process, of

course, is best described in Origins of Inequality , but here Rousseau does not dwell on

geographical place so much, only on the differences between nature and society. We might

correctly assume that ―nature‖ is found in the country, or at least away from the city. We might

also correctly assume that ―society‖ will be found where there are more people, thus in the city.

32

Rousseau decries life in the city for many of its sordid characteristics, among them ―the

epidemics bred by foul air in consequence of great numbers of men being crowded together‖

( Origins 42), and summarizes his point by saying, ―. . . in a word, if you add together all the

dangers with which these causes are always threatening us, you will see how dearly nature makes

us pay for the contempt with which we have treated her lessons‖ ( Origins 42).

The clearest representation and starkest contrast between life in the city and life in rural

areas is found in Julie . St. Preux states in an early letter, ―No, the heart cannot take nourishment

in the tumult of the world‖ ( Julie 88), contrasting life in society to the idyllic natural scene of the

upper Valais: ―It seems that by rising above the habitation of men one leaves all base and earthly

sentiments behind, and in proportion as one approaches ethereal spaces the soul contracts

something of their inalterable purity‖ ( Julie 64). But even having drawn this conclusion, St.

Preux goes to Paris to ―get to know man‖ by studying ―the inhabitants of a large city,‖ where

man is ―heaped up by multitudes in the same places‖ ( Julie 199). He continues,

I shall begin to judge thereby the true effects of Society; for were it averred that it makes

men better, the more populous and concentrated it is, the better they must be, and morals,

for example, will be far purer in Paris than in the Valais; and if one found the contrary, an

opposite consequence would have to be drawn. ( Julie 199)

In the letters St. Preux writes from Paris, he reveals his finding that society does not, in fact,

make men better, nor does it make them happier. Julie responds,

Why in a City so rich is the populace so miserable, whereas extreme misery is so rare

among us where there are no millionaires to be found? This question, it seems to me, is

entirely worthy of your inquiry; but it is not with those whose company you keep that you

must expect to resolve it. Gilded apartments are where a schoolboy goes to learn the airs

of the world . . . It is there that are conspicuously to be found the obscure maneuvers of

vice, which it covers over in social circles with prettified words; it is there one learns of

the secret iniquities with which the powerful and rich snatch a remnant of black bread

from the oppressed they publicly claim to pity. ( Julie 248-249)

Rousseau catalogs several specific characteristics of the civilized society with which he mingles,

characteristics consistent with those in his other works, and that are discussed in the following

paragraphs.

33

In contrast to his representation of city life, Rousseau, through St. Preux, presents the

other end of the spectrum, as he returns from Paris to ―this solitary place where the sweet sight of

nature alone [will] banish all this social factitious order that has made me so unhappy‖ ( Julie

399). St. Preux effusively praises the rural world around him: ―It is here that the Graces are

enthroned, that simplicity adorns them, that gaiety animates them, and that you have to worship

them despite yourself‖ ( Julie 494).

Similar views are expressed in Émile . Early in the treatise, Rousseau summarizes his

objections to the city and his appreciation of the country in the following passage:

Men are made not to be crowded into anthills but to be dispersed over the earth

which they should cultivate. The more they come together, the more they are corrupted.

The infirmities of the body, as well as the vices of the soul, are the unfailing effect of this

overcrowding. Man is, of all the animals, the one who can least live in herds. Men

crammed together like sheep would all perish in a very short time. Man‘s breath is

deadly to his kind . . .

Cities are the abyss of the human species. At the end of a few generations the

races perish or degenerate. They must be renewed, and it is always the country which

provides for this renewal. Send your children, then, to renew themselves, as it were, and

to regain in the midst of the fields the vigor that is lost in the unhealthy air of

overpopulated places . . . in an abode more natural to the species, the pleasures connected

with the duties of nature would soon efface the taste for the pleasures not related to those

duties. ( Émile 59)

Following soon after this pronouncement, he explains that these are the reasons, among others,

that he wishes to raise Émile in the country.

As has been established previously, Rousseau‘s purposes in The Social Contract are

essentially different from those of most of his earlier works; he does not go into depth regarding

city vs. country life, other than establishing that ―all Rome‘s most illustrious citizens lived in the

fields and tilled the earth . . .‖ and thus became ―the mainstays of the republic‖ ( Contract 125).

He goes on to say, ―This condition, being that of the best patricians, was honored by all men; the

simple and laborious life of the villager was preferred to the slothful and idle life of the

bourgeoisie of Rome; and he who, in the town, would have been but a wretched proletarian,

became, as a laborer in the fields, a respected citizen‖ ( Contract 125).

34

Beyond the aforementioned general characteristics of the natural man and his corrupted

counterpart, the civilized man, there are a number of specific traits that Rousseau attributes to

each. Just as there is an obviously repeated occurrence of these human types and of his biases

toward country living, we also find many of these traits repeated throughout several of his works.

As stated previously, the natural man makes his first major appearance in Rousseau‘s

Second Discourse, so it stands to reason that we would get our most complete description of him

there. Since Rousseau‘s purpose in this discourse is to trace the development of the natural man

into the civilized man (i.e., man in society), he explains how certain innate faculties lead to

various changes in man‘s psyche, in his actions, in his situation, and in his station. For our

purposes here, however, we will examine the natural man as in a still photograph, capturing him

in his original state before his development actually begins. At the same time, we will examine

the civilized man, in order to see that the two creatures are, for all intents and purposes,

diametrical opposites. By examining the characteristics of one or the other that Rousseau

discusses, we find that there are several antithetical sets of traits which will later serve as our

measuring instruments for the characters of Dickens.

Within the first few pages of the discourse, Rousseau discusses natural man‘s physical

characteristics and his physical superiority to civilized man. Soon thereafter, however, Rousseau

turns his attention to ―metaphysical and moral aspects‖ ( Origins 87), which are more relevant to

the present argument. Even though Rousseau marks this turning point in his attention, he has

already suggested one important characteristic. First of all, he has determined that natural man

was solitary and did not exist as a member of a tribe or clan. Civilized man, obviously, lives in

close proximity to others of his kind and is a social creature. As has been previously suggested,

this proximity is, according to Rousseau, the cause of his degradation. And as the following

paragraphs prove, it is also the root from which all the other traits arise.

Rousseau clearly asserts in the Second Discourse that natural man is pleased with

himself; that is, he is satisfied with who he is and exhibits what Rousseau later calls, in Émile ,

amour de soi . In the discourse he says, ―Self-love is a natural sentiment which prompts every

animal to watch over its own conservation and which, directed in man by reason and modified by

pity, produces humanity and virtue‖ ( Origins 167). Having little contact with others of his kind,

he makes no comparisons of himself with them. Rousseau states, ―. . . with each individual

regarding himself as the sole spectator by whom he is observed and the sole judge of his own

35

merit, it follows that a sentiment which has its origins in comparisons he is unable to make

[pride, or amour propre ] could not possibly begin to exist in his soul‖ ( Origins 167-168). On the

other hand, pride, he says, is ―only a relative, artificial sentiment born in society, a sentiment

which prompts each individual to attach more importance to himself than to anyone else‖

( Origins 167). And he later teaches Émile, ―Man is very strong when he is contented with being

what he is; he is very weak when he wants to raise himself above humanity‖ ( Émile 81). Pride,

then, only possible where men are in proximity to each other, is a characteristic of the civilized

man, a characteristic that leads to the development of several more prominent traits.

Pride, of course, is a result of comparison, and comparison, according to Rousseau, gives

way to competition. In the natural development that Rousseau describes in the Second

Discourse, he says that as humans gathered into groups, ―Each began to look at the others and to

want to be looked at himself; and public esteem came to be prized‖ ( Origins 114). Eventually,

―this universal desire for reputation, honours and promotion, which devours us all . . . excites and

multiplies passions‖ ( Origins 133), and ―in turning all men into competitors, rivals or rather

enemies, it causes every day failures and successes and catastrophes of every sort by making so

many contenders run the same course . . .‖ ( Origins 133). Among civilized society, one of the

ways that humans began to think they could garner more ―public esteem‖ was to amass more and

more possessions. The desire for property thus grew, and not simply for the necessities of

subsistence. The natural man had been satisfied with the basics, as Rousseau shows in the

second paragraph of the Second Discourse: ―I see him satisfying his hunger under an oak,

quenching his thirst at the first stream, finding his bed under the same tree which provided his

meal; and, behold, his needs are furnished‖ ( Origins 81). Conversely, the civilized man cannot

be satisfied with the necessities:

. . . In the first place it is a question of providing what is necessary, next what is

superfluous, then afterwards come luxuries, then immense riches, then subjects, then

slaves; man in society does not have a moment of respite. What is the more singular is

that the less natural and urgent the needs, the more the desires increase, and what is

worse, so does the power to satisfy them; so that after a long experience of prosperity,

and after having consumed many treasures and distressed many men, my hero will end by

cutting every throat until he is the soul master of the universe. Such is the moral portrait,

36

if not of human life, at least of the secret ambitions of the heart of every civilized man.

( Origins 148-149)

This idea of luxury is one that pervades all of Rousseau‘s works. In the First Discourse,

he claims that the arts and sciences are luxuries in society. And as he was previously quoted as

saying there, the spread of luxury results in a decrease in virtue ( Moral Effects 15). We see this

theme carried on in Julie , when St. Preux remarks, ―. . . the primary needs, or at least the most

obvious ones, are those of a beneficent heart, and as long as there is someone who lacks

necessities, what honorable man has any surplus?‖ ( Julie 189). Furthermore, Rousseau says in

Émile ,

Do you know the surest means of making your child miserable? It is to accustom him to

getting everything; since his desires grow constantly due to the ease of satisfying them,

sooner or later powerlessness will force you, in spite of yourself, to end up with a refusal.

And this unaccustomed refusal will give him more torment than being deprived of what

he desires. First, he will want the cane you are holding; soon he will want your watch;

after that he will want the bird flying by; he will want the star he sees shining; he will

want everything he sees. Without being God, how will you content him? ( Émile 87)

He goes on later in Émile to comment, ―The propriety, the fashions, and the customs which

derive from luxury and high style confine the course of life to the dullest uniformity. The

pleasure one wants to enjoy in others‘ eyes is lost for everyone; it is enjoyed neither by them nor

by oneself‖ ( Émile 351). Competition, then, based on the number of ―luxuries‖ one possesses, is

a losing battle, but in spite of this fact, greed increases, and there is a constant desire among the

civilized for more material wealth.

But there is another way, according to Rousseau, that humans attempt to rise in the

esteem of others, closely connected to the one just discussed. Not only did man develop into a

being who wanted to have more; he was now one who wanted to be more, or at least to appear to

be more than he was. In the Second Discourse, Rousseau states:

Behold all the natural qualities called into action, the rank and destiny of each man

established, not only as to the quantity of his possessions and his power to serve or to

injure, but as to intelligence, beauty, strength, skill, merit or talents; and since these

qualities were the only ones that could attract consideration it soon became necessary

either to have them or to feign them. It was necessary in one‘s own interest to seem to be

37

other than one was in reality. Being and appearance became two entirely different things

. . . ( Origins 119)

In order to accomplish this goal, civilized man learned to wear masks. This discrepancy between

appearance and reality, represented by the metaphor of the mask, is a concept that recurs in

Rousseau‘s works.

In the Second Preface of Julie , Rousseau says, ―Trying to be what we are not, we come to

believe ourselves different from what we are, and that is the way to go mad‖ ( Julie 15). This

statement foreshadows the prevalence of this idea in the novel, especially during the time that St.

Preux lives in Paris and writes about the society of which he is a part there. He reports, ―. . .

everyone puts himself constantly in contradiction with himself, without it occurring to anyone to

find this wrong. They have principles for conversation and others for practice; the contrast

scandalizes no one, and it is agreed that there should be no resemblance between them‖ ( Julie

192-193). He goes on to say, ―Thus the men to whom you are speaking are not the ones with

whom you converse; their sentiments do not emanate from the heart, their perceptions are not in

their minds, their words do not represent their thoughts, all you see of them is their shape . . .‖

( Julie 193). The motivation for this superficiality, according to St. Preux, is simply so an

individual can fit in with the society around him. He says, ―. . . No man dares to be himself.

One must do as the others do , is the primary maxim of wisdom in this country‖ ( Julie 203). St.

Preux is drawn into this superficiality and begins to assume a mask in order to conform to

Parisian society but fortunately returns to the country before he is permanently affected.

In Émile , Rousseau instructs,

Let him [the student] know that man is naturally good . . . But let him see that society

depraves and perverts men; let him find in their prejudices the source of all their vices . . .

let him see that all men wear pretty much the same mask, but let him also know that there

are faces more beautiful than the mask covering them. ( Émile 237)

This connection between the mask and vice is an idea repeated from the Second Discourse.

There, Rousseau states that from the distinction between appearance and reality ―arose insolent

ostentation, deceitful cunning and all the vices that follow in their train‖ ( Origins 119). The

ultimate result of this incongruity, Rousseau says, is this:

Finally, a devouring ambition, the burning passion to enlarge one‘s relative fortune, not

so much from a real need as to put oneself ahead of others, inspires in all men a dark

38

propensity to injure one another, a secret jealousy which is all the more dangerous in that

it often assumes the mask of benevolence in order to do its deeds in greater safety; in a

word, there is competition and rivalry on the one hand, conflicts of interest on the other,

and always the hidden desire to gain an advantage at the expense of other people.

( Origins 119)

In contrast, the natural man, happy and satisfied with both who he is and what he has, and living

in solitude, reflects simplicity and genuineness of character. In addition, he is innocent of the

vices that afflict the civilized man.

Summarizing the underlying reason for this pride, competition, greed and affinity for

luxury, and masks, Rousseau makes this statement in the Second Discourse:

He [a ―Carib‖; i.e., natural man] would have to know that there is a class of men who

attach importance to the gaze of the rest of the world . . . Such is, in fact, the true cause of

all these differences: the savage lives within himself; social man lives always outside

himself; he knows how to live only in the opinion of others, it is, so to speak, from their

judgment alone that he derives the sense of his own existence . . . It is not my subject here

to . . . show how, as a result of always asking others what we are and never daring to put

the question to ourselves in the midst of so much philosophy, humanity, civility and so

many sublime maxims, we have only façades, deceptive and frivolous, honour without

virtue, reasons without wisdom, and pleasure without happiness. It is enough for me to

have proved that this is not at all the original state of man, and that it is only the spirit of

society together with the inequality that society engenders which changes and corrupts in

this way all our natural inclinations. ( Origins 136-137)

Interestingly, Rousseau writes mostly about these characteristics of the civilized man,

saying relatively little about the traits of the natural man. As stated earlier, we know that he

lived in solitude away from others, that he was satisfied with himself, that he was satisfied with

necessities of life, that he was genuine. There is, however, one other characteristic that Rousseau

specifically mentions: compassion. Whereas the civilized man sees others as creatures to be

used and abused for his own advancement, the natural man has ―an innate repugnance against

seeing a fellow creature suffer‖ ( Origins 99). Rousseau continues:

. . . all the social virtues . . . flow from this quality alone. In fact, what are generosity,

mercy and humanity but compassion applied to the weak, to the guilty or to the human

39

race in general? Benevolence, and even friendship, correctly understood, is only the

outcome of constant compassion directed towards a particular object; for is desiring that a

person should not suffer other than desiring that he should be happy? ( Origins 100)

He goes on to say:

It is pity which carries us without reflection to the aid of those we see suffering; it is pity

which in the state of nature takes the place of laws, morals and virtues, with the added

advantage that no one there is tempted to disobey its gentle voice; it will always dissuade

a robust savage from robbing a weak child or a sick old man of his hard-won sustenance

if he has hope of finding his own elsewhere; it is pity which, in place of that noble maxim

of rational justice ‗Do unto others as you would have them do unto you‘, inspires all men

with this other maxim of natural goodness, much less perfect but perhaps more useful:

‗Do good to yourself with as little possible harm to others.‘ ( Origins 101)

Rousseau maintains that this quality is ―strong in savage man, and developed but weak in

civilized man‖ ( Origins 100). Because of civilized man‘s highly developed use of reason and

philosophy, he can

say in secret at the sight of another suffering: ‗Perish if you will; I am safe.‘ No longer

can anything but dangers to society in general disturb the tranquil sleep of the

philosopher or drag him from his bed. A fellow-man may with impunity be murdered

under his window, for the philosopher has only to put his hands over his ears and argue a

little with himself to prevent nature, which rebels inside him, from making him identify

himself with the victim of the murder. ( Origins 101)

This lack of active compassion is in keeping with civilized man‘s self-absorption and

competitive spirit.

Compassion and benevolence are qualities that Rousseau also propounds to his student in

Émile. Again, he says that pity is ―the first relative sentiment which touches the human heart

according to the order of nature‖ ( Émile 222). He instructs the teacher to

lavish the influence of your pupil‘s parents in favor of the weak man to whom justice is

denied and who is crushed by the powerful man. Loudly proclaim yourself the protector

of the unfortunate. Be just, humane, and beneficent. Give not only alms; give charity.

Works of mercy relieve more ills than does money. Love others, and they will love you.

( Émile 95)

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The objective of such teaching is to bring ―the love of humanity to the depths of one‘s heart. It is

in doing good that one becomes good . . . Busy your pupil with all the good actions within his

reach. Let the interest of the indigents always be his. Let him assist them not only with his purse

but with his care‖ ( Émile 250). Having referred in the Second Discourse to the assumption by

civilized men of a mask of benevolence, easily worn when it is only a matter of giving alms or

tossing coins at a beggar, he clarifies here what he means by true benevolence and compassion in

a civilized society.

Obviously there are many more components to Rousseau‘s philosophy than have been

discussed here, and many more factors involved in the development of the natural man into the

civilized man. However, how man theoretically evolved from being natural to being civilized,

while interesting as a philosophical concept, is not relevant to our purposes in this study. Based

on our examination of several of Rousseau‘s works, we can conclude that the following elements

are pertinent to our present study of the novels of Dickens:

A belief in the natural goodness of humanity

A belief in the corruption of humanity by society and its institutions

A belief in redemptive possibilities for corrupted humanity

The superiority of the country (natural) over the city (civilized)

Natural man as a being displaying the following characteristics: solitary existence;

satisfaction with self ( amour de soi ); satisfaction with basic necessities; genuineness of

character; measurement of self worth based on inner feelings; innocence and freedom

from vice; and compassion

Civilized man as a being displaying the following characteristics: communal existence

within cities and in close proximity to others; pride ( amour propre ); lack of satisfaction

with basic necessities and a greedy desire for luxuries; masks worn to increase the esteem

of others or to disguise true motives; measurement of self worth based on the opinions of

others; participation in immoral or illegal conduct (vice); lack or denial of compassion

As the following chapters will show, the characteristics can also be found in the novels of

Charles Dickens; thus, we may say that there is a clear affinity between the philosophies, as well

as the characters, of Dickens and Rousseau.

41

CHAPTER 3

DICKENS‘S NATURAL MAN

That Dickens believed in the natural goodness of humankind is a rarely disputed fact.

Evidence not only in his novels but in his letters and speeches indicates his ―boundless hope in

the human heart‖ (Hardy, The Writer and His Work 74; The Later Novels 21-22), as well as his

appreciation for the characteristics that reveal this goodness. Defined in various ways by critics,

the real heroes of Dickens‘s novels are sometimes but not always the protagonists—they are, to

use Rousseau‘s terminology, the natural men (and women).

Critics through the decades have studied Dickens‘s characters and attempted to define,

through various means, the thematic objectives of his characterization. G. K. Chesterton, for

instance, says that Dickens was ―the living expression‖ of the tenets of democracy, even with its

―exaggerations—failure to understand original sin, notions that education would make all men

good, the childlike yet pedantic philosophies of human perfectibility. But the whole was full of a

faith in the infinity of human souls . . .‖ ( Critical Study 13-14). Humphry House posits that

instead of joining or initiating a political party, Dickens tried in his novels to portray ―a kind of

human being which might become a focus of reformist sentiment. If everybody were like this,

he seemed to say, the complex evils of the world would automatically be cured . . .‖ (50). House

continues,

His problem was to construct a general ideal of character and action which should neither

make prominent those traits of human nature emphasized by any doctrinaire party, nor

advocate the practical policy of any labeled group . . . The only other course open to him

was to take the commonest and simplest sorts of human kindness and show them

intensified. (51)

Donald Stone writes of Dickens‘s yearning for ―an uncomplicated form of existence in which

man‘s innately benign disposition will be allowed to flourish without hindrance from higher

authorities‖ (250), the same longing expressed by Rousseau. Steven Marcus expresses Dickens‘s

objective in Christian terms, saying that his good characters display ―a kind of primitive

Christianity whose foremost article of faith is that the meek shall inherit the earth‖ (73). In The

City of Dickens , Alexander Welsh employs the allegory of The Pilgrim’s Progress to delineate

Dickens‘s extraordinarily good characters as those who reject the Earthly City and aspire to the

Heavenly City. Similarly, Roselee Robison borrows terminology from the eighteenth century,

42

dubbing the character type under discussion the ―Man of Feeling,‖ who was, she says, ―a

composite of readily definable virtues, which included an unlimited capacity for immediate and

instinctive compassion; an ability to share joys as well as the sorrows of others . . .‖ and whose

―innocence and goodness‖ Dickens ―inseparately linked with self-sacrifice‖ (262-63).

Concurring with Marcus‘s opinion that Dickens‘s characterization is based on his religious

beliefs, Dennis Walder qualifies Dickens‘s ideal as ―innocent good nature rather than a subtle

moral intelligence‖ (40). Spilka, pointing back to the eighteenth century for Dickens‘s source, as

do Palmer and Robison, calls this character type ―the Benevolent Man‖ (170). Finally, Josephine

Guy uses half of her own dichotomy to describe Dickens‘s good characters, the ―moral man‖ (as

opposed to the ―economic man‖). Comparing Dickens to Mrs. Gaskell, Guy goes on to say that

both authors use plot devices borrowed from melodrama and romance to ―[examine] the

resilience of moral integrity in extreme situations‖ (152). In Guy‘s assessment we see the

primary reason for critical rejection of these ―unnaturally‖ good characters: the alleged lack of

realism in their portrayal.

Contrary to this criticism, and to those critics who would charge that Dickens rejected the

idea of natural goodness (Magnet and Meckier, for example), there is evidence both that Dickens

did, indeed, believe in natural goodness, and that his characters merely display qualities that he

appreciated in the actual people with whom he came in contact. In a speech given in Edinburgh

on 25 June 1841, he speaks of ―that soul of goodness which the Creator has put in them‖

( Speeches 55), that is, the poor. He continues this theme in a dinner speech given in Boston the

following January:

These creatures have the same elements and capacities of goodness as yourselves, they

are moulded in the same form, and made of the same clay; and though ten times worse

than you, may, in having retained anything of their original nature amidst the trials and

distresses of their condition, be really ten times better. ( Speeches 65-66)

Letters reveal that Dickens admired many of the qualities by which Rousseau defined his

natural man. Writing to John Overs in October 1840, Dickens defends his choice of Samuel

Rogers as the dedicatee of Master Humphrey :

I do not know and have never known a man on whom riches and honors have had less

corrupting influence [measurement of self based on inner feelings] than the venerable old

gentleman who is the subject of our discussion. I do not know and have never known a

43

more amiable, charitable [compassion], or just man in all he says and does. A kinder-

hearted or more gentle creature [compassion] I have never seen. And that he does, every

day, a thousand worthy and generous acts [again, compassion]. ( Letters II.140)

In mid 1841, Dickens wrote to John Forster, again on the defensive, this time of his portrayal of

Lord George Gordon in Barnaby Rudge :

Say what you please of Gordon, he must have been at heart a kind man, and a lover of the

despised and rejected, after his own fashion [compassion]. He lived upon a small

income, and always within it [satisfaction with basic necessities]; was known to relieve

the necessities of many people . . . and did great charities in Newgate [compassion].

( Letters II.294-295)

Before and during his first trip to America, Dickens‘s letters depict an initially positive

impression of the Americans. Letters he had received from readers of The Old Curiosity Shop

reveal ―simple and honest hearts‖ [genuineness of character and innocence] that leave Dickens

―inexpressibly moved‖ (Letter to Lewis Gaylord Clark, 28 September 1841, Letters II.394).

After actually arriving in America, he writes numerous letters extolling the virtues of the

Americans he has encountered. To Albany Fonblanque he praises the ―warmth of heart

[compassion]‖ and the ―earnestness‖ [genuineness of character], and says that Americans are

―generous, hospitable, affectionate, and kind‖ [compassion] (March 1842, Letters III.119-120).

In similar letters to Forster and to George Macready, he again describes the Americans as

―affectionate and generous,‖ ―kind,‖ ―warm-hearted,‖ ―open-hearted‖ [compassionate], ―earnest‖

and ―frank‖ [genuineness of character] (15 and 22 March 1842, Letters III.132-134, 158). He

even goes so far as to tell Macready, ―I have seen none of that greediness [lack of which

indicates satisfaction with basic necessities] and indecorum on which travelers have laid so much

emphasis‖ ( Letters III.158).

Of course, Dickens‘s impressions of the Americans changed quickly. However, his

appreciation of ―natural‖ qualities did not. In a speech given at the Second Exhibition of the

Royal Academy on 2 May 1870, one month before he died, Dickens praises these qualities as

exhibited in his friend, the late Daniel Maclise: the ―gentlest [compassion] and most modest of

men‖ [ amour de soi , measurement of self worth by inner feelings], ―the frankest [genuineness]

and largest-hearted‖ [compassion], ―incapable of a sordid or ignoble thought‖ [innocence and

44

freedom from vice], ―without one grain of self-ambition‖ [ amour de soi ], in summary,

―wholesomely natural at the last as at the first . . .‖ ( Speeches 332).

How ever direct Dickens‘s description of real people in his letters and speeches, it is of

course in his novels that we see the clearest illustrations of the character traits that comprise his

ideal and that parallel those of Rousseau‘s natural man. First, Rousseau‘s man lived in solitude,

and only when he came into contact with others was he corrupted. While we rarely see

Dickens‘s characters in actual solitude, we may assert that they are solitary because they are

natural in a civilized world, that they are outside the mainstream of society by virtue of their very

naturalness. We may also assert that most of them ultimately repair to a suburb, the country, or

some other setting beyond the reach of urban corruption. But we also must admit that in order to

truly gauge their natural goodness, we must see them within the context of that corrupted setting,

interacting with those corrupted characters. Just as Milton‘s Eve argues in Paradise Lost , ―. . .

what is faith, love, virtue unassay‘d?/Alone, without exterior help sustained?‖ (IX.335-36), we

must observe the behavior that proves Guy‘s ―resilience of moral integrity in extreme situations‖

(152).

Some of these ―extreme situations‖ entail an introduction and temptation to vice, and it is

the resistance and resilience that delineate the truly natural man. From the simple innocence of

Pickwick and Oliver Twist through that of Noddy Boffin, we see characters who, according to

House, ―seem to act as they do because they cannot act otherwise. Not one of them has a moral

policy, or a considered opinion about why he does good. They seem to have no temptations,

difficulties, or struggles . . .‖ (39). At the same time, these characters often are so unaware of the

corruptive forces at work in their world that they are completely taken aback when faced with

them. They are not, however, caught off guard to the point that they are taken in by the

corruption, and they always retain their pure innocence, though they are perhaps a bit

enlightened.

While the civilized man exhibits inordinate greed and grasping for wealth, the natural

man is satisfied with life‘s basic necessities. In Dickens, the natural character values

relationships over wealth, love over money. While some admirable characters in the novels have

considerable wealth, they, according to House, ―have no style beyond kindness, no taste beyond

comfort . . .‖ (61). House goes on to say that they ―are great spenders: they pay good wages, lend

on generous terms, give large amounts away‖ (63). We see this vividly portrayed in Pickwick,

45

the Cheerybles, and the Fezziwigs. Perhaps, though, it is Paul Dombey who best expresses this

attitude: ―I mean. . . to put my money all together in one Bank, never try to get any more, go

away into the country with my darling Florence, have a beautiful garden, fields, and woods, and

live there with her all my life!‖ ( DS 214). Paul‘s valuing of love over money is Dickens‘s ideal.

If, on the other hand, the natural man and woman do not have money with which to be generous,

or even if they do, they liberally give love to those who need it. The poor members of Sleary‘s

Circus in Hard Times believe without doubt that ―there ith a love in the world, not all Thelf-

interetht after all‖ ( HT 222), and it is this love that sustains them.

The remaining characteristics of Rousseau‘s natural man are all connected by a common

denominator: the way the character sees himself and other people, and the relationship between

the two. Rousseau‘s amour de soi (satisfaction with self) is best defined in Dickens‘s characters

as the absence of a need to prove himself or herself better than others. Its converse in the

civilized man is amour propre , or pride, discussed in Chapter Four. With the existing English

class system, as well as the rise of the middle class, Dickens often portrays the ambitious efforts

of his characters to rise above their current station, or if they cannot, to at least prove themselves

better than and higher on the social ladder than someone else. The natural characters, on the

other hand, exhibit no need to be better than others; they are satisfied with who they are and

accept their place on the social scale. They act according to an internal value system, a natural

integrity that does not rely on the opinions of others for validation. Kate (and to a degree

Nicholas) Nickleby, Mark Tapley, Tom Pinch, Joe Gargery, and Noddy Boffin exhibit these

characteristics in primarily positive ways. Again, this stepping outside of the mainstream may be

seen as a type of solitude.

Because the natural characters measure their self worth by internal standards and have no

need to compare themselves to or compete with others, they are not afraid to reveal themselves

genuinely to those with whom they come in contact. Unlike their civilized counterparts, they

eschew the donning of masks to make themselves appear more genteel, more wealthy, more

intelligent. While we might see Joe Gargery pathetically attempting to avoid embarrassing Pip

by assuming ―civilized‖ manners, or Noddy Boffin carrying out an extensive ―pious fraud,‖

these characters are generally who they really are, with no masks and no apologies. It was the

desire to fit into reigning society by becoming a unit identical to all others (wearing masks if

46

necessary) that Rousseau so vehemently rejects in Julie , and we see the same rejection in

Dickens.

But the trait of the natural man that truly distinguishes him from the civilized man,

according to Rousseau, is compassion. As he says in the Second Discourse, ―generosity, mercy,

and humanity . . . benevolence, and even friendship‖ are forms of compassion. And compassion,

most often termed ―benevolence,‖ is the natural quality most frequently emphasized in the novels

of Dickens. House posits that

the goodness of the leading Dickens moral characters, from Pickwick to Boffin, depends

on . . . personal affection and general philanthropy. . . The key to these characters is

‗benevolence‘ . . . It seems, in fact, as if this peculiar quality were certain to be

hereditary, so much was it a part of the nature of those who possessed it. (39-40)

House even goes so far as to delineate the ―main symptoms of Dickens benevolence‖ as

―generosity, in money, and in kindness that costs nothing‖; ―an acute feeling for suffering in all

forms, whether caused by poverty, sickness, cruelty (mental or physical) or injustice‖;

―righteous, if ineffectual, indignation against all anomalies, abuses, and inefficiency in social

organizations or government which cause suffering of any kind‖; and ―an equable and benign

temper in the benevolent person . . .‖ (46). According to House‘s definition, Dickens‘s

benevolence has as many facets as Rousseau‘s compassion. Palmer makes the point, too, that

benevolence is not only the province of Dickens‘s rich: ―. . . in the Dickens world the poor as

benevolists far outnumber the rich . . .‖ (19). He goes on to say, ―. . . the poor in the Dickens

world—Sam Weller, Newman Noggs in Nicholas Nickleby , a succession of ‗road‘ characters in

The Old Curiosity Shop , Mark Tapley in Martin Chuzzlewit , the Wooden Midshipman‘s family

in Dombey and Son —. . . best embody the Shaftsburian philosophy of natural benevolence‖ (31).

We often see in Dickens the association of compassion/benevolence with generosity,

often portrayed as charity. But just as Rousseau instructs Émile to help others not only ―with his

purse but with his care‖ ( Émile 250), Dickens‘s concept of charity goes beyond giving alms to

the poor, and certainly beyond institutionalized charity. According to Dennis Walder,

The term means more than the simple human virtue of benevolence, or giving alms to the

poor; it implies the more general motive of Christian love, expressed as a love of God

and one‘s nature . . . Dickens‘s charitable characters are not strictly Christian in their

performance of benevolent acts towards others, since these seem no more than

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spontaneous expressions of their good nature, rather than reflections of a will dedicated to

God. But Dickens wishes to avoid the premeditativeness of doing good as a duty, as well

as any hint of excess—goodness which emerges as the natural expression of the

personality. (44-45)

Grahame Smith adds to Dickens‘s definition of charity, saying, ―In its finest form it was a

relationship, of however short a duration, which was as morally purifying to the giver as it was

practically beneficial to the receiver‖ (23). This is clearly displayed by Pickwick, the

Cheerybles, and even Scrooge after his redemptive experience.

A number of characters have been mentioned here as exhibiting one or more of these

traits. Having established previously that all the characters fall somewhere on a continuum, we

find that some fit the description more perfectly than others. In order to determine one‘s true

qualification as a ―natural man,‖ we must examine the evidence showing that particular

characters exhibit all of the characteristics set forth by Rousseau.

An examination of the novels in chronological order, as well as the previous discussion,

reveals, not surprisingly, Samuel Pickwick as the first natural man of Dickens‘s novels.

Pickwick is called by Marcus ―the incarnation of benevolence‖ (26); likewise, Palmer says that

―the natural benevolence of man [is] embodied in Pickwick‖ (21). Indeed, as the reader is told in

chapter II, ―Now general benevolence was one of the leading features of the Pickwickian theory‖

( PP 22). Several pages later we are told that ―Mr. Pickwick was the very personation of

kindness and humanity‖ ( PP 72). This characteristic in Pickwick, shown through his generosity,

compassion, forgiveness, kindness, and other qualities, is quite obviously his defining attribute.

At various times within the novel, Pickwick displays all of House‘s ―symptoms of

benevolence‖ (46). Perhaps the most common form is his generosity, both with his kindness and

his money. This is seen early on when he ―[pats] the rosy cheeks of the female servants‖ of

Manor Farm, and ―[slips] into the hands of each, some more substantial expressions of his

approval‖ ( PP 154). He gifts Isabella Wardle on her marriage to Mr. Trundle with ―a rich gold

watch and chain, which no mortal eyes but the jeweller‘s had ever beheld before‖ ( PP 418). The

most notable instances of Pickwick‘s generosity, however, come during his imprisonment in the

Fleet. Having requested a room by himself, he soon becomes aware that in attaining his desire,

he is displacing a Chancery prisoner whose term has already lasted twenty years. Seeing that the

man is ―tall, gaunt, cadaverous . . . with sunken cheeks‖ ( PP 652) indicative of starvation,

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Pickwick pays him weekly rent for the room, also offering him use of the room when he needs to

escape the ―noisy crowded place‖ ( PP 653) to which he is now relegated.

Even more notable here, however, is the generosity that Pickwick shows toward his chief

antagonists—Alfred Jingle, Job Trotter, and Mrs. Bardell. Finding them all fellow inmates in the

Fleet, Pickwick responds in a way that is true to his benevolent nature, but far from the world‘s

expectations. He confronts Job:

―Come here, sir,‖ said Mr. Pickwick, trying to look stern, with four large tears

running down his waistcoat. ―Take that, Sir.‖

Take what? In the ordinary acceptation of such language, it should have been a

blow. As the world runs, it ought to have been a sound, hearty cuff; for Mr. Pickwick

had been duped, deceived, and wronged by the destitute outcast who was now wholly in

his power. Must we tell the truth? It was something from Mr. Pickwick‘s waistcoat

pocket, which chinked as it was given into Job‘s hand: and the giving which, somehow

or other imparted a sparkle to the eye, and a swelling to the heart of our excellent old

friend, as he hurried away. ( PP 659)

This is only the beginning of Pickwick‘s generous treatment of Jingle and Job. While they are in

prison, he provides for them food and a room (as opposed to a ―kennel‖), and gives them money

to recover their clothing from the pawnbroker. But going remarkably further, Pickwick pays the

amount necessary for their release from the Fleet, and secures, through Perker, positions for both

of them on an estate in Demerara.

Pickwick is not quite so eager and quick to relieve Mrs. Bardell when Dodson and Fogg

have her imprisoned for failure to pay their fees for her lawsuit. However, through Perker‘s

persistence, Pickwick‘s true nature wins out. It is actually Perker‘s appeal to another of House‘s

types of benevolence, the ―righteous indignation‖ against institutions causing suffering, that calls

forth Pickwick‘s forgiveness and monetary generosity. Perker refers to the prison as a ―den of

wretchedness‖ ( PP 724), and pleads,

―You have now an opportunity, on easy terms, of placing yourself in a much higher

position than you ever could by remaining here . . . Can you hesitate to avail yourself of it

. . . when it enables you to take the very magnanimous revenge—which I know, my dear

Sir, is one after your own heart—of releasing this woman from a scene of misery and

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debauchery, to which no man should ever be consigned if I had my will, but the infliction

of which, on any female, is frightful and barbarous . . .‖ ( PP 725-26)

By paying the costs of the lawsuit, Pickwick, of course, frees both Mrs. Bardell and himself,

which he does largely due to his compassion toward another soul in need of assistance, Arabella

Allen Winkle. Arabella, newly married to Winkle, appeals to Pickwick, ―. . . I had hoped that

what no consideration for yourself would induce you to do, a regard to our happiness might‖ ( PP

731), that is, to break the news of the marriage to her brother Benjamin and his cohort, Bob

Sawyer. Never one to miss an opportunity of facilitating true love, Pickwick pays the court

costs, despite the fact that Dodson and Fogg are the recipients, thus freeing Mrs. Bardell and

himself so that he can follow through in fulfilling Arabella‘s request. We might safely

conjecture that did not Arabella arrive at the moment she does, Pickwick‘s natural compassion

and Perker‘s argument would still win out in favor of Mrs. Bardell.

Pickwick‘s benevolence in prison goes beyond these particular instances. As he leaves

the Fleet, ―In all the crowd of wan emaciated faces, he [sees] not one which [is] not the happier

for his sympathy and charity‖ ( PP 723). He is, we are told, ―far more sad and melancholy, for

the moment, than when he had first entered it. Alas! how many sad and unhappy beings had he

left behind!‖ ( PP 723). But his acts of benevolence continue unabated outside of the prison

walls.

From the early chapters in the novel to the very end, Pickwick displays the type of

benevolence that most closely matches compassion itself. He acutely feels the suffering of

others, as we have seen in his response to the Chancery prisoner, Jingle, Job, and Arabella.

Whether the pain is the result of Jingle‘s taunting of Tupman by stealing his money and his love

interest and calling him ―Tuppy‖ (Chapter IX), or if it is the more serious anguish of the almost-

disinherited Winkle and his wife, Pickwick certainly acutely feels their suffering. His ire is

aroused in the former instance, but we see the ascendancy of his ―equable and benign temper‖

(House‘s fourth symptom) as he ―[bottles] up his vengeance, and [corks] it down‖ ( PP 135). He

displays similar control in Eatanswill, when the unruly crowd casts aspersions on himself and

Mrs. Pott:

As these taunts were accompanied with invidious comparisons between Mr.

Pickwick and an aged ram, and several witticisms of the like nature; and as they

moreover rather tended to convey reflections upon the honour of an innocent lady, Mr.

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Pickwick‘s indignation was excessive; but as silence was proclaimed at the moment, he

contented himself by scorching the mob with a look of pity for their misguided minds, at

which they laughed more boisterously than ever. ( PP 192)

Numerous other examples show Pickwick responding to the suffering of others with a violent

threat against the perpetrator, but he never carries it out.

Dickens‘s final presentation of Pickwick‘s benevolence and compassion is seen in his

efforts to reconcile Winkle and his father (and his willingness to support the couple if the efforts

are ineffectual), as well as the aid he gives to Sam and Mary to enable their eventual marriage.

As he says, ―The happiness of young people . . . has ever been the chief pleasure of my life‖ ( PP

871), in effect bringing the novel to a Shakespearean close, with multiple couples finding true

love and happiness, and Pickwick satisfied enough to retire. Of course, even in his retirement,

his benevolence continues; we are told, ―He is known by all the poor people about, who never

fail to take their hats off as he passes with great respect‖ ( PP 877).

If, as Sam Weller says, Pickwick is ―a reg‘lar thorough-bred angel‖ ( PP 704) showing

extraordinary capacity for benevolence, he also exhibits the other characteristics of the natural

man, two of which are outgrowths of this compassion. First, as Pickwick has been a social and

highly compassionate man throughout the story, culminating in his exceptional show of

generosity and benevolence while in prison, he develops what is known to mental health

professionals as ―compassion fatigue,‖ and thus seeks and maintains a solitary existence within

the Fleet. Upon arrival there he had made arrangements for private lodgings, but now he vows to

―be a prisoner in [his] own room‖ ( PP 707). He says, ―I have seen enough . . . My head aches

with these scenes, and my heart too‖ ( PP 707 ), so for the next three months he stays to himself,

locked in his room. Likewise, after his release from the Fleet and after settling the Winkles‘

marital matters, seeing the Snodgrasses happily wed, and tying up other loose ends, Pickwick

disbands the Pickwick Club and seeks relative solitude and quiet in his home in Dulwich, a

suburb of London. Having spent, as he says, ―the greater part of two years . . . mixing with

different varieties and shades of human character‖ ( PP 872), he now settles down to live out his

days with only those closest to him.

The second characteristic concomitant to Pickwick‘s benevolence is his satisfaction with

the basic necessities of life. Dressed in the outdated style of tights and gaiters, Pickwick has no

desire to keep up with society, and expresses his happiness, early on, simply with hearth and

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home on Goswell Street: ―As well might I be content to gaze on Goswell-street for ever, without

one effort to penetrate to the hidden countries which on every side surround it‖ ( PP 8). His

generosity toward those he loves, as well as those he does not, also indicates that money is of no

interest to him for its own sake; the only good of the vast amount he has apparently amassed over

the years is the good it can do others. When Tony Weller tries, slyly, to give Pickwick his

money, ostensibly for safe keeping, Pickwick tells him, ―I assure you, my good friend, I have

more money than I can ever need; far more than a man at my age can ever live to spend‖ ( PP

861). In response to Tony‘s observation that no one ―knows how much he can spend till he

tries,‖ he goes on to say, ―Perhaps not . . . but as I have no intention of trying any such

experiments, I am not likely to come to want‖ ( PP 861). Despite his protests, he eventually takes

the money, telling Weller, ―I can do more good with it, perhaps, than you can‖ ( PP 862).

Obviously, money is not what drives Pickwick, and as the entire story presents, the love and

esteem of his friends is of most value to him. Upon Sam‘s declaration of his intent to marry

Mary, we are told, ―He [Pickwick] derived at that moment more pride and luxury of feeling from

the disinterested attachment of his humble friends, than ten thousand protestations from the

greatest men living could have awakened in his heart‖ ( PP 866). The friendship of Sam,

Wardle, Tupman, Snodgrass, Winkle, and a host of others is the basic necessity of life for

Pickwick.

In addition to his being satisfied with these basics, Pickwick is also satisfied with himself,

that is, he displays amour de soi . One indicator of this virtue is the lack of competitive spirit,

due to the sense that one has no need to prove himself better than others. Pickwick‘s lack of this

spirit is signified during his stay in Bath when he plays cards with ―three thorough-paced female

card-players‖ who are ―so desperately sharp‖ and take the game so seriously that Pickwick is

stunned and frightened by their ferocious competition ( PP 550), and thus ineffectual as a player.

But despite the fact that Pickwick shows no need to compete, at other times his expressed

feelings come dangerously close to pride; still, we are always led to interpret them as simple

affection and appreciation for those who honor him, not so much for the honor itself. For

instance, at the meeting of the Pickwick Club in Chapter I, Pickwick is quoted as saying:

. . . if ever the fire of self-importance broke out in his bosom the desire to benefit the

human race in preference, effectually quenched it. . . He had felt some pride—he

acknowledged it freely; and let his enemies make the most of it—he had felt some pride

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when he presented his Tittlebatian Theory to the world . . . but if the fame of that treatise

were to extend to the farthest confines of the known world, the pride with which he

should reflect on the authorship of that production, would be as nothing compared with

the pride with which he looked around him, on this, the proudest moment of his

existence. (Cheers.) He was a humble individual . . . ( PP 6)

In this instance, when Pickwick admits his pride in his accomplishments, he might seem to be

glorying in the accolades he is receiving; on the other hand, this praise is quickly disputed by Mr.

Blotton‘s charge that Pickwick is a ―humbug,‖ but only, he admits, in a ―Pickwickian sense‖

( PP 7). Pickwick‘s moment of glory ends with a peaceful resolution of the conflict, and the

question of Pickwick‘s pride forgotten.

In a later chapter, after discovering ―a strange and curious inscription of unquestionable

antiquity‖ ( PP 158), Pickwick ―[looks] around him. The attachment and fervour of his

followers, [lights] up a glow of enthusiasm within him. He [is] their leader, and he [feels] it‖

( PP 158). Exactly how he ―feels‖ his leadership is unclear, and he might certainly be feeling

pride of position; however, knowing what we know of his affection for his three friends, we can

easily interpret his enthusiasm as simple reciprocation of the ―attachment and fervour‖ they feel

for him. In addition, given the fact that Blotton is soon to discredit his discovery, we might

allow him this moment of pride. But when he responds to Blotton‘s criticism by ―[causing] a

portrait of himself to be painted, and hung up in the club-room‖ ( PP 168), we must wonder again

if this is true pride, or simply his own response to the love and support of his followers.

According to Rousseau, however, true pride ( amour propre ) involves a need for competition

between oneself and others, a need to prove oneself better than others; Pickwick, a non-

competitor, refuses to engage with Blotton, although the narrator declares Pickwick the winner

of the battle, noting ―Mr. Pickwick‘s greatness‖ as opposed to ―the littleness of his enemies‖ ( PP

169).

In this incident Pickwick also demonstrates, along with amour de soi , his internal value

system, upon which his self concept is based. This characteristic of the natural man means that a

character relies on his own self evaluation rather than the opinions of others for his self worth.

While Pickwick obviously enjoys the esteem shown to him by his followers, we have no

indication that Pickwick needs that esteem to bolster his own self concept. In addition, whereas

the civilized man must compare himself to others to determine how he measures up, the natural

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man does not. As a result, the natural man feels no need to recognize or enforce class

distinctions. In Chapter XXXV, again during the sojourn in Bath, Pickwick is unimpressed with

the members of high society to whom he is introduced; to him, the Dowager Lady

Snuphanuph is merely ―the fat old lady,‖ and Young Lord Mutanhed is ―the one with the long

hair, and the particularly small forehead‖ ( PP 548). Pickwick exhibits his disregard for class

boundaries most thoroughly in his relationship with Sam, but Dickens also gives us an overt

statement when the ―poor relations‖ arrive for the marriage of Emily Wardle and Augustus

Snodgrass: ―They were welcomed heartily though, for riches or poverty had no influence on Mr.

Pickwick‖ ( PP 873).

Because of his natural view of himself, Pickwick feels no need to wear a mask in order to

appear different than he is. In fact, his resistance to such pretension even goes so far that he will

not appear in costume at Mrs. Leo Hunter‘s fancy-dress breakfast. At her suggestion that he

dress as another great club founder such as Plato, Zeno, Epicurus, or Pythagoras, Pickwick

replies, ―. . . as I cannot put myself in competition with those great men, I cannot presume to

wear their dresses‖ ( PP 216), again demonstrating his desire to avoid competition as well as,

perhaps, his healthy (or humble?) self image. In everyday circumstances, Pickwick is most

transparent. His facial expressions usually belie his emotions: he ―beams‖ when he is happy, his

face ―[colours] up to the very tips of his spectacles‖ when he is angry ( PP 135), and ―the tears

roll down his cheeks, in the fullness of his joy‖ when he is moved beyond words ( PP 874).

Pickwick appears in stark contrast to almost everyone he meets, most of whom continually

attempt to appear to be someone or something they are not.

Finally, and in conjunction with his genuineness, we see Pickwick as a man who is

extremely innocent. Robison asserts, ―The profound innocence of . . . Mr. Pickwick is. . .

revealed by [his] endless enthusiasm for essentially childish amusements . . . [his] gleeful

participation in the Christmas festivities at Manor Farm stems from a similarly boyish nature‖

(267). But in addition to this childlike aspect of Pickwick‘s innocence, he is devoid of all vice,

and unable to fathom for a significant amount of the novel that some people in the world do not

exhibit the transparency, honesty, and integrity that are such significant parts of his personality.

Chesterton writes, ―Pickwick goes through life with that god-like gullibility which is the key to

all adventures‖ ( Critical Study 98). Because of his gullibility, naïveté, and innocence, Pickwick

is often duped, beginning with the fiasco with Mrs. Bardell and the law-sharks Dodson and Fogg.

54

Likewise, Pickwick is completely taken in by Job Trotter‘s tears when they first meet. ―You are

a very good fellow,‖ he tells Job, ―an honest fellow‖ ( PP 237), and he reproaches Sam for

showing ―so little respect for this young man‘s feelings‖ ( PP 237). But, Chesterton adds, ―The

greenhorn is the ultimate victor in everything; it is he that gets the most out of life . . .‖ ( Critical

Study 98). Walder believes that the ultimate test of Pickwick‘s innocence is his experience in the

Fleet: ―This experience does not entirely destroy his innocence, however; on the contrary, his

innocence miraculously includes and transcends what happens to him when he is sent to the

Fleet‖; although Pickwick, Walder says, ―‗[falls]‘ into a more mature or knowledgeable view of

things,‖ the reader comes to believe that ―there can be innocent happiness in this transitory

world‖ (22-23).

Were it not for the challenges and conflicts that Pickwick faces, the reader would not see

many of his natural qualities. Dickens needed, for instance, to contrast Pickwick‘s innocence

with the cunning of Jingle, his genuineness with the pretensions of Job (as well as of Pickwick‘s

own followers at times), his generous benevolence with the greed of Dodson and Fogg, in order

to fully prove Pickwick a natural man, outside society‘s norm.

In Oliver Twist , the contrasts are just as stark, except this time, we are not as surprised by

the innocence of the protagonist. At least at the beginning of the novel, Oliver has not had time

in his life to be anything but innocent, and he has not had opportunity or need to be anything but

genuine. However, growing up in a workhouse where he is cruelly treated, Oliver could easily

learn a need for others to determine his self worth, a desire for more than life‘s basic necessities

(even if he must start with more porridge), and indifference to the suffering of others, yet he does

not. Oliver is the true embodiment of Dickens‘s belief in natural goodness. Dickens himself

said that his idea for the novel was ―to show the principle of Good surviving through every

adverse circumstance‖ (qtd. in Lang vii), and thus Oliver represents ―ideal and incorruptible

innocence‖ (Marcus 79). Barbara Hardy has said, in Oliver Twist Dickens ―tells a truth about a

death struggle between nature and nurture, self and society‖ ( Writer and His Work 33). Since, as

Marcus says, ―there is nothing in his experience to account for what he is‖ (79-80), we must

assume that Oliver is good by virtue of his nature; he, although a child, meets the criteria for

Rousseau‘s ―natural man.‖

From the beginning, Oliver leads a solitary existence, forced upon him by the death of his

mother upon her giving birth to him. At her death he becomes ―a parish child—the orphan of a

55

workhouse . . . to be cuffed and buffeted through the world—despised by all, and pitied by none‖

( OT 3), setting him for a childhood, at least, of loneliness and isolation in places ―where one kind

word or look . . . never lighted the gloom of his infant years‖ ( OT 8). After his egregious offense

of asking for more gruel, he becomes ―a close prisoner in the dark and solitary room to which he

had been consigned by the wisdom and mercy of the board‖ ( OT 12), at night ―drawing himself

closer and closer to the wall, as if to feel even its cold hard surface were a protection in the

gloom and loneliness which surrounded him‖ ( OT 13).

Oliver‘s removal from the workhouse takes him out of his solitude but places him in the

clutches of Fagin. After escaping one time and experiencing the first kind treatment of his life

from those in Mr. Brownlow‘s household, Oliver is re-snatched and returned to Fagin‘s den.

There, as punishment, Oliver suffers solitary confinement once again, being locked alone in the

den all day and into the night for a week in order to meet Fagin‘s purposes of ―[preparing] his

mind, by solitude and gloom, to prefer any society to the companionship of his own sad thoughts

in such a dreary place‖ so that he could then ―[instill] into [Oliver‘s] soul the poison which he

hoped would blacken it‖ ( OT 120). Hardy comments, ―The child is being carefully brainwashed,

first cunningly cold-shouldered and isolated, then cunningly brought into the deadly warmth of

the thieves‘ family circle‖ ( Writer and His Work 33). Oliver takes refuge, however, in prayer,

and during the entire time Oliver is with Fagin, he prays that ―if any aid were to be raised up for

a poor outcast boy, who had never known the love of friends or kindred, it might come to him

now: when, desolate and deserted, he stood alone in the midst of wickedness and guilt‖ ( OT

130). These experiences of enforced solitude during his early years instill in him the desperate

desire to attain love and family appropriate for one who is so ideally good, thus allowing him to

escape his solitary existence for good. Fortunately for Oliver, his own natural virtue and his

recent experience of love and compassion from Mr. Brownlow and Mrs. Bedwin fortify him for

the challenges he faces in the company of Fagin and his gang.

But, like Pickwick, Oliver is also solitary by virtue of his possessing the full array of

Rousseau‘s natural characteristics. We have mentioned previously his innocence, which Dickens

calls by name on a number of occasions; Toby Crackit even addresses him as ―innocence‖ ( OT

141) because of his ―inwalable mug‖ ( OT 141). We see this quality displayed most prominently

when Oliver is juxtaposed with Fagin and his gang members. Oliver interprets Fagin‘s cruel

punishment of the boys as his ―stern morality,‖ basing his interpretation on Fagin‘s own claims

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of teaching them the precepts necessary for getting along in the (his) world. In conversations

with the Artful Dodger and Charley, Oliver demonstrates his lack of knowledge of criminal

terminology such as ―prig‖ ( OT 116) and ―scragging‖ ( OT 118). But more importantly than

these indicators is Oliver‘s utter horror when he confronts the reality of Fagin‘s expectations of

him. Finally allowed to venture out of the den with the Dodger and Charley, Oliver is

completely unprepared and appalled by what he sees:

What was Oliver‘s horror and alarm as he stood a few paces off, looking on with

his eyelids as wide open as they would possibly go, to see the Dodger plunge his hand

into the old gentleman‘s pocket, and draw from thence a handkerchief! To see him hand

the same to Charley Bates; and finally to behold them, both, running away round the

corner at full speed!

In an instant the whole mystery of the handkerchiefs, and the watches, and the

jewels, and the Jew, rushed upon the boy‘s mind. He stood, for a moment, with the blood

so tingling through all his veins from terror, that he felt as if he were in a burning fire . . .

( OT 58)

Merely observing the criminal act of Dodger and Charley brings images of hell to the innocent

Oliver, as does his later reading of Fagin‘s book of criminal history. He falls to his knees and

―[prays] Heaven to spare him from such deeds‖ ( OT 130). And later, in Chapter XXII, when

Oliver accompanies Sikes and Toby on their night-time venture, he seems almost as stunned and

surprised by their purpose as he did with the Dodger and Charley, indicating that he is still as

innocent as the day he first arrived in London:

And now, for the first time, Oliver, well nigh mad with grief and terror, saw that

housebreaking and robbery, if not murder, were the objects of the expedition. He clasped

his hands together, and involuntarily uttered a subdued exclamation of horror. A mist

came before his eyes; the cold sweat stood upon his ashy face; his limbs failed him; and

he sunk upon his knees. ( OT 143)

Oliver‘s ―incorruptible innocence‖ (Marcus 79; Hardy, Writer and His Work 29 ) is demonstrated

in his ignorance of vice and criminal behavior, as well as his emotionally violent response when

he is exposed to it. Despite the efforts of Fagin and Monks to corrupt him, his innocence

remains intact throughout the novel.

57

Because Oliver is deprived of positive nurture for so much of his early childhood, his

staunch faith and unshakeable aversion to crime undoubtedly come from innate principles within

him. We are told in Chapter II that ―nobody had taught him‖ ( OT 9) how to pray, yet somewhere

and sometime Oliver develops proficiency in earnest prayer. Although he yearns so intently for

human love and companionship, he holds fast to his own standards in rejecting the relationships

offered to him by Fagin and his boys, preferring the solitary world of his prayers to the

contamination of the criminals. In the final chapters of the novel, we learn that Oliver‘s mother

had a ―gentle heart, and noble nature‖ ( OT 351), and by now we have seen the open-hearted

compassion of Rose Maylie, his aunt. Heredity and nature, therefore, are the explanation

Dickens gives for Oliver‘s exemplary behavior.

Apparently these forces account for others of Oliver‘s ―natural‖ characteristics. Oliver

longs for love, and a home, because he has never had either; however, beyond the basic

necessities, he expresses no desire for wealth or position, especially if achieving either means

sacrificing his values. The Dodger tell him that under Fagin, he can make his ―fortun‘ out of

hand‖ ( OT 117), and Charley follows, ―And so be able to retire on your property, and do the gen-

teel: as I mean to, in the very next leap-year but four that ever comes . . .‖ ( OT 117). But Oliver

responds, ―I don‘t like it . . . I wish they would let me go. I—I—would rather go‖ ( OT 117).

Seeing that Oliver is not tempted by money or position, the boys use other tactics. Dodger asks

him, ―Don‘t you take any pride out of yourself? Would you go and be dependent on your

friends?‖ ( OT 117). Once again Oliver, showing that he values his integrity more than the

opinions of others, turns the tables on the Dodger and asks, ―You can leave your friends, though,

. . . and let them be punished for what you did‖ ( OT 117), referring to his arrest after his first

seeing Charley and the Dodger pick a pocket. Oliver‘s retort has as little effect on Dodger as

Dodger‘s goading has on Oliver, and Dodger then appeals to Oliver‘s sense of competition:

―If you don‘t take pocket hankechers and watches . . . some other cove will; so

that the coves that lose ‘em will be all the worse, and you‘ll be all the worse too, and

nobody half a ha‘p‘orth the better, except the chaps wot gets them—and you‘ve just as

good a right to them as they have.‖ ( OT 118)

Oliver is spared having to make a response to this argument by the arrival of Fagin, but we may

rest assured that it would not have swayed him. In this particular interchange between the boys,

Oliver proves both his amour de soi and his satisfaction with basic necessities, like his

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innocence, incorruptible. In the final chapter, Oliver again demonstrates his satisfaction with

basic necessities when he ―joyfully [accedes]‖ ( OT 365) to equally dividing the three thousand

pounds of his inheritance with his wicked stepbrother, Monks.

Evidence of Oliver‘s genuineness of character is seen throughout the novel in his

outpouring of heartfelt emotion and his honesty. When Mr. Losberne questions Oliver about the

housebreaking incident with Sikes, Dickens comments, ―. . . finding that Oliver‘s replies to his

questions, were still as straightforward and consistent, and still delivered with as much apparent

sincerity and truth, as they had ever been, he [Losberne] made up his mind to attach full credence

to them, from that time forth‖ ( OT 208). The reader is told of one incident in which Oliver

purposes to don a mask, the day of his departure from the ―baby farm‖:

Young as he was, however, he had sense enough to make a feint of feeling great regret at

going away. It was no very difficult matter for the boy to call the tears into his eyes.

Hunger and recent ill-usage are great assistants if you want to cry; and Oliver cried very

naturally indeed. ( OT 8)

As Dickens indicates here, Oliver‘s tears are genuine, not a mask, but Mrs. Mann and Mr.

Bumble are free to interpret them as ―great regret‖ at leaving instead of the despondency that

they actually reveal.

Despite the dearth of compassion during his early years, Oliver displays an extraordinary

capacity for this emotion throughout the story. Oliver‘s one friend and playmate at the

workhouse is sickly Little Dick. The two commiserate with each other, and when Oliver runs

away from his apprenticeship with Sowerberry in Chapter VII, his one goodbye is to Dick. At

this juncture, Dick is the one showing compassion to Oliver, and Dick offers him the first

blessing he ―had ever heard invoked upon his head‖ ( OT 43). After Oliver‘s departure, Dick

requests that someone ―put a few words down‖ leaving his love to ―poor Oliver Twist‖ and

telling him ―that I was glad to die when I was very young . . .‖ ( OT 109). Later, in Chapter LI,

Oliver returns to his home town in the company of Rose, Mrs. Maylie, Mrs. Bedwin, and Mr.

Losberne, and his one concern is finding Dick. Remembering the blessing that Dick had given

him, Oliver proposes to Rose, ―. . . we‘ll—we‘ll take him away from here, and have him clothed

and taught, and send him to some quiet country place where he may grow strong and well . . .‖

( OT 348). However, Oliver‘s compassionate plans for Dick have come too late.

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But if Oliver‘s compassion for Dick is rather unremarkable, that he shows to Fagin is

extraordinary. After Fagin is arrested, condemned, and imprisoned in Chapter LII, Mr.

Brownlow takes Oliver to visit him at Newgate. Oliver‘s desire is to say one prayer for Fagin,

and to assuage Fagin‘s fear by talking to him until the next morning, but Fagin only wants

Oliver‘s help to escape. In a final show of compassion, Oliver prays for him, ―God forgive this

wretched man!‖ (OT 364) and leaves. In praying for his former tormentor, Oliver is ―the vessel

of Grace‖ (Marcus 80), demonstrating not only his sympathy for Fagin‘s present fear, but also

his concern for the Jew‘s immortal soul.

As with Pickwick, Dickens is often criticized for his larger-than-life portrayal of Oliver.

Hardy posits, however, that with Oliver Twist Dickens was ―straddling fable and realism. It was

not his purpose to create a totally accurate portrait of a foundling, but to combine such a portrait

with an image of original virtue‖ ( Writer and His Work 32-33). And in so doing, Dickens

created a portrait of Rousseau‘s natural ―man.‖

One‘s first impulse in naming the natural man of Nicholas Nickleby most likely would be

to look to the Cheerybles, Ned and Charles. Indeed, critics such as Marcus and Cassotti point to

the charitable brothers as characters that fall into the too-good-to-be-credible category, but on

whom Dickens rests his theme of charity in the novel. On the other hand, we would also expect

Nicholas to be a likely candidate; after all, Dickens himself says in his ―Preface to the First

Cheap Edition, 1848‖ that he ―saw no reason why such a hero should be lifted out of nature‖ ( NN

9), that is, why he should not have flaws, even though he is the hero of the novel. Yet even if we

disagree with Magnet‘s view that Nicholas displays innate Hobbesian aggressiveness, he does

behave more impetuously (and often more violently) than either Oliver, who displays little

impetuosity and even less tendency to violence, or Pickwick, who threatens violence but never

acts on his threats. Nevertheless, Nicholas exhibits all of the characteristics Rousseau

catalogued, and discussion here could turn now to an examination of that evidence. However,

one more character in the novel can be considered a natural man, and that character is a

woman—Kate Nickleby.

In the novels being examined in this study, few women demonstrate all of the ―natural‖

traits. Most who might come to mind are the stereotypical ―angels of the house,‖ epitomes of

compassion and patience, but few have enough opportunity outside the house to provide us with

evidence of the other characteristics. Kate, to the contrary, does.

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Referred to more than once in the beginning of the novel as ―the timid country girl‖ ( NN

128), Kate has been wrenched out of her life in the country by the death of her father and placed

in the middle of London society. If she did not live in perfect solitude before coming to London,

she lived primarily in the bosom of her happy family, with no apparent need or desire to

intermingle with anyone else. In London, however, she is deprived of the presence of her

beloved brother and forced into society where she faces extreme humiliation as a seamstress with

Madame Mantalini, a companion to the ambitious Mrs. Wititterly, and a sexual pawn for her

uncle. In these situations she experiences loneliness even when surrounded by others, yet she

yearns not for companionship, but solitude. When Kate begins working at Madame Mantalini‘s,

Miss Knag tells her that

she would never do for the business, but that she need not give herself the slightest

uneasiness on this account, for that she (Miss Knag) by increased exertions on her own

part, would keep her as much as possible in the background, and that all she would have

to do would be to remain perfectly quiet before company, and to shrink from attracting

notice by every means in her power. This last suggestion was so much in accordance

with the timid girl‘s own feelings and wishes, that she readily promised implicit reliance

on the excellent spinster‘s advice . . . ( NN 215)

Not until Nicholas returns to the family in Chapter 38 does Kate

[begin] to enjoy a settled feeling of tranquility and happiness, to which, even in

occasional and transitory glimpses, she had long been a stranger. . . Her former

cheerfulness was restored, her step regained its elasticity and lightness, the colour which

had forsaken her cheek visited it once again . . . ( NN 462)

Given the choice between London and not-so-polite society, Kate clearly chooses solitude; but

with her family in virtual solitude is her obvious optimal choice.

Love of her mother and brother Nicholas, and memory of the love of her late father are

the basic necessities of Kate‘s life. As we can assume from the change in her behavior when

Nicholas returns from Dotheboys Hall, Kate is satisfied and contented as long as the remaining

members of her family are left alone and together. But because her father‘s death has left the

family destitute, Kate is forced during Nicholas‘s exile to be satisfied with even less materially,

and she rises to the challenge admirably. She proclaims, ―I will try to do anything that will gain

me a home and bread‖ ( NN 39). Her only stipulation is that she be allowed to return home at

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night after her day‘s work: ―I cannot leave her [Mrs. Nickleby], uncle. I must have some place

that I can call a home; it will be wherever she is, you know, and may be a very humble one‖

(128). With Nicholas miles away, Kate is determined to preserve the one loving family

relationship she has, even though the disparity between her character and her mother‘s is

significant. Ambitious and materialistic, Mrs. Nickleby chastises Kate for regarding the loss of

the family‘s more valuable possessions ―with such provoking calmness‖ and ―talking about

[them] in that cold and unfeeling way!‖ ( NN 532). Kate responds:

―You and Nicholas are left to me, we are together once again, and what regard can I have

for a few trifling things of which we never feel the want? When I have seen all the

misery and desolation that death can bring, and known the lonesome feeling of being

solitary and alone in crowds, and all the agony of separation in grief and poverty when

we most needed comfort and support from each other, can you wonder that I look upon

this as a place of such delicious quiet and rest, that with you beside me I have nothing to

wish for or regret?‖ ( NN 532)

Kate‘s statement here perhaps indicates that her understanding of life‘s most important aspects

does not come naturally to her but is a result of her experience; however, Dickens does not allow

the reader to see any behavior in Kate that would reveal a former difference in her character, and

the fact that she has this satisfaction with life‘s basics despite her mother‘s influence signifies

that it is a quality natural to her.

Not surprisingly for one so attached to her family and so loving, Kate also exhibits

compassion toward the vulnerable people she encounters. Nicholas has no apprehension

regarding Kate‘s treatment of Smike, even though he does have misgivings concerning his

mother‘s. Kate lives up to his expectations:

. . . Kate advanced towards him [Smike] so kindly, and said in such a sweet voice, how

anxious she had been to see him after all her brother had told her, and how much she had

to thank him for having comforted Nicholas so greatly in their very trying reverses, that

he began to be very doubtful whether he should shed tears or not, and became still more

flurried. . . Kate, although she was so kind and considerate, seemed to be so wholly

unconscious of his distress and embarrassment, that he recovered almost immediately and

felt quite at home. ( NN 423-24)

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Kate‘s compassion is likewise evoked by the family‘s mentally challenged neighbor, a ―poor

creature,‖ according to Kate, suffering from ―the infirmities of nature‖ ( NN 512). Earlier in the

novel, Kate even dispenses compassion toward Ralph before, that is, she gets to know him. She

tells Miss La Creevy, who calls Ralph ―a cross-grained old savage,‖ ―It is only his manner, I

believe . . . he was disappointed early in life I think I have heard, or has had his temper soured by

some calamity. I should be sorry to think ill of him until I knew he deserved it‖ ( NN 22).

Although we find these instances, neither compassion nor any of its concomitant virtues is a

ruling characteristic for Kate as it is for Pickwick and Oliver.

On a number of occasions Dickens uses the word ―innocent‖ to describe Kate. In fact,

this entire branch of the Nickleby family is described as being ―wholly unacquainted with what

is called the world—a conventional phrase which, being interpreted, signifieth all the rascals in

it‖ ( NN 41). But as Nicholas is becoming acquainted with the world at Dotheboys Hall, and as

Mrs. Nickleby remains blissfully ignorant, Kate is portrayed as the picture of innocence. Seen in

contrast to her wicked Uncle Ralph, she is ―gentle innocence‖ juxtaposed with his ―rugged

villainy,‖ thinking ―guileless thoughts‖ while he contemplates ―wily plots and calculations,‖ with

a ―warm young heart [palpitating] with a thousand anxieties and apprehensions,‖ as his ―lay

rusting in its cell, beating only as a piece of cunning mechanism‖ ( NN 128). This innocence

hinders Kate‘s understanding of the motivation of Miss Knag‘s instructions to stay ―as much as

possible in the background‖ ( NN 215) (or perhaps she is simply too relieved to think of anything

else); later, in Chapter 28, it causes her to speak out in a manner considered inappropriate by

Mrs. Wititterly: ―If poor Kate had possessed the slightest knowledge of the world, she certainly

would not have ventured, even in the excitement into which she had been lashed, upon such an

injudicious speech as this‖ ( NN 353). Even though Kate‘s knowledge of the world and its

expectations is limited and in many ways she truly is innocent, evidence elsewhere suggests that

her outspokenness is not due to her innocence.

In a society where the majority of the inhabitants wear masks to hide their true feelings

and intentions, Kate is remarkably genuine. Whether or not her innocence is to blame, she is

plainspoken, even blunt at times. One of the first instances of this candor is her first

conversation with the pretentious Miss Knag:

―Charming creature, isn‘t she [Madame Mantalini], Miss Nickleby?‖ said Miss

Knag, rubbing her hands together.

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―I have seen very little of her,‖ said Kate. ―I hardly know yet.‖

―Have you seen Mr. Mantalini?‖ inquired Miss Knag.

―Yes; I have seen him twice.‖

―Isn‘t he a charming creature?‖

―Indeed, he does not strike me as being so, by any means,‖ replied Kate. ( NN 209-

10)

Refusing to follow the lead of Miss Knag in praising their employers, Kate answers her questions

honestly, avoiding the mask of politeness, or the one of ambition that Miss Knag wears. The

outburst with Mrs. Wititterly described previously also gives evidence of Kate‘s refusal to

pretend a respect she does not feel, especially when her honor is being questioned.

On her first encounter with Sir Mulberry Hawk, Kate remarks, ―I wish you to understand,

sir . . . that your behaviour offends and disgusts me‖ ( NN 237). She follows this with a retort to

her uncle: ―. . . beneath the roof where I, a helpless girl, your dead brother‘s child, should most

have found protection, I have been exposed to insult which should make you shrink to look upon

me. Let me pass you‖ ( NN 237). At a later meeting with Hawk she is even more blunt:

―You had best not seek to detain me, sir!‖ said Kate, angrily.

―And why not?‖ retorted Sir Mulberry. ―My dear creature, now why do you keep

up this show of displeasure?‖

― Show !‖ repeated Kate, indignantly. ―How dare you presume to speak to me,

sir—to address me—to come into my presence?‖

―You look prettier in a passion, Miss Nickleby,‖ said Sir Mulberry Hawk,

stooping down, the better to see her face.

―I hold you in the bitterest detestation and contempt, sir,‖ said Kate. ―If you find

any attraction in looks of disgust and aversion, you—let me rejoin my friends, sir,

instantly.‖ ( NN 341)

Kate can be as violent with her words as Nicholas is with his fists, but she is equally forthright in

expressing her less vehement thoughts and feelings.

This forthrightness, as well as the passion itself, arises from Kate‘s most significant

natural characteristic, her amour de soi . Kate has an innate awareness of her own personal

integrity that she will not allow to be violated. Nor is she proud in the sense of having amour

propre , by her mother‘s admission. Mrs. Nickleby belies her own pride in saying, ―It is a great

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blessing to me in my misfortunes to have a child who knows neither pride or vanity, and whose

bringing-up might very well have excused a little of both at first‖ ( NN 216). Certainly Kate takes

pains to avoid appearing proud, but when her personal virtue and integrity are threatened, she

takes a strong stand. She is not flattered by the attentions of Mr. Mantalini or of Sir Mulberry;

despite her natural innocence, she sees them for what they are. She demands that her uncle

―release [her] from such vile and degrading companionship as [she is] exposed to‖ in the person

of Hawk ( NN 355), but it is just this amour de soi that justifies the treachery in Ralph‘s mind.

He asks himself, ―If [Kate] is as true to herself as she should be from what I have seen, what

harm ensues?‖ ( NN 329).

In one instance, Kate indicates a concern for how she appears in the eyes of others, an

instance that demonstrates more her desperation in the moment than a dominant characteristic.

After much pleading with her uncle to release her from the situation in which she finds herself,

she says to him,

―In the mean time . . . I am to be the scorn of my own sex, and the toy of the other; justly

condemned by all women of right feeling, and despised by all honest and honourable

men; sunken in my own esteem, and degraded in every eye that looks upon me. No, not

if I work my fingers to the bone, not if I am driven to the roughest and hardest labour.

Do not mistake me. I will not disgrace your recommendation. I will remain in the house

in which it placed me, until I am entitled to leave it by the terms of my engagement;—

though, mind, I see these men no more. When I quit it, I will hide myself from them and

you, and, striving to support my mother by hard service, I will live at least, in peace, and

trust in God to help me.‖ ( NN 356-57)

Kate has exhibited on many occasions that she lives according to her own standards and that she

is determined not to wear masks in order to please others. If she expresses fear here of what

others may think of her, we may interpret it as a revelation that she actually is affected by

external standards of evaluation, or perhaps this is simply a new argument she is trying in order

to convince her uncle to call off his dogs. On the other hand, Kate is not likely to wear a mask to

achieve her purpose.

Seen in contrast to the wiles of Miss Knag, the histrionics of Mrs. Wititterly, the jealousy

of both, and the ambition and materialism of her mother, Kate stands out as a natural anomaly.

Because she is in the constant society of such women, the reader would not be surprised were she

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to take on some of these characteristics. However, in these situations and in the most threatening

ones with Sir Mulberry, Kate remains, as Ralph has said, ―true to herself‖ ( NN 329). As Robin

Gilmour contends, ―. . . she emerges not only with her virtue intact but having demonstrated ‗that

native grace and true gentility of manner‘ (ch. 28) that render her superior to her aristocratic

pursuer‖ (115), as well as to most members of the civilized society that surrounds her.

In Martin Chuzzlewit Dickens presents little question as to who qualifies as the natural

man. Tom Pinch is variously described as ―a good angel‖ ( MC 488), ―so amiable and so good‖

( MC 761), ―so faithful and so good . . . so true and self-denying . . . so gentle, and so kind, and

even tempered‖ ( MC 762). He describes himself as ―punctual and vigilant, and anxious to do

what is right‖ ( MC 610), and ―a poor, shy, awkward creature: not at all a man of the world‖ ( MC

487-88). To be sure, despite all the praises heaped upon him by his friends, the first impression

the reader gets of Tom is not extremely appealing:

An ungainly, awkward-looking man, extremely short-sighted and prematurely

bald, availed himself of this permission [to enter Seth Pecksniff‘s room] . . . He was far

from handsome certainly; and was drest in a snuff-coloured suit, of an uncouth make at

best, which, being shrunk with long wear, was twisted and tortured into all kinds of odd

shapes; but notwithstanding his attire, and his clumsy figure, which a great stoop in his

shoulders and a ludicrous habit he had of thrusting his head forward, by no means re-

deemed, one would not have been disposed (unless Mr. Pecksniff said so) to consider him

a bad fellow by any means. ( MC 16)

Regardless of this first impression, however, by the end of the novel, the reader is convinced that

Tom Pinch, without question, is a natural man.

Tom is much like Pickwick in that he appears, in the beginning, to be a simple dupe; he is

much like Oliver in his inability to recognize vice when he sees it. At the beginning of the novel,

Tom is innocent, like Pickwick and Oliver, to a fault and to his own detriment. He believes his

employer Seth Pecksniff to be one of the finest men alive, all the while Pecksniff and his

daughters disparage him behind his back and exploit him as an employee. John Westlock,

however, and later, Martin Chuzzlewit, Jr., see through Pecksniff‘s mask of Christian

respectability and his kindness toward Tom. Westlock attempts to disabuse Tom before leaving

Pecksniff behind in Chapter 2:

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―. . . He doesn‘t keep you as his assistant because you are of any use to him; because your

wonderful faith in his pretensions is of inestimable service in all his mean disputes;

because your honesty reflects honesty on him; because your wandering about this little

place all your spare hours, reading in ancient books and foreign tongues, gets noised

abroad, even as far as Salisbury, making of him, Pecksniff the master, a man of learning

and of vast importance. He gets no credit from you, Tom, not he.‖ ( MC 23)

Westlock‘s irony—he catalogues exactly the ways Pecksniff exploits Tom—is missed by Tom

who takes his friend‘s words at face value and continues to believe in the worthiness of Pecksniff

for a major part of the novel.

Tom demonstrates his innocence and inexperience in less detrimental ways as well. His

visit to Salisbury provides him with numerous moments of childlike enchantment. We are told,

―Mr. Pinch regarded everything exposed for sale with great delight . . .‖ ( MC 69). Tom notices

every detail of what he sees:

First of all, there were the jewellers‘ shops, with all the treasures of the earth displayed

therein, and such large silver watches hanging up in every pane of glass . . . But what

were even gold and silver, precious stones and clockwork, to the bookshops, whence a

pleasant smell of paper freshly pressed came issuing forth, awakening instant

recollections of some new grammar had at school, long time ago . . . ( MC 70)

Tom‘s foray into Salisbury also underscores his solitary existence. Even though he

makes friends—with John in the beginning and Martin later—he continues to find himself left

behind, as these men realize the treachery of Pecksniff and move away. Tom, of course, is

virtually alone in his veneration of Pecksniff. He also has reconciled himself to the fact that he

will never win the hand of Mary Graham, yet his love for her precludes his looking for another

marriage partner. Despite these circumstances that leave Tom alone for much of the novel, he

seems to view all of life as a market day, and finds great joy in his existence. In fact, even after

he is in London, he ―[leads] a happy, quiet, studious kind of life, after his own heart‖ ( MC 619),

working alone day after day for a ―strange employer‖ ( MC 619) he does not know.

If Tom‘s response to market day in Salisbury is innocent delight, his later response to

London is ―guileless distrust‖ ( MC 577) due to stories he had heard circulated in the country

from whence he came. With John Westlock‘s help, however, he quickly conquers his fears of

pickpockets and cannibalistic Sweeney Todds. Tom‘s innocence has been shattered, of course,

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before he comes to London, when he learns the true nature of Pecksniff: ―The star of his whole

life from boyhood had become, in a moment, putrid vapour. It was not that Pecksniff, Tom‘s

Pecksniff, had ceased to exist, but that he never had existed . . . as Tom‘s blindness in this matter

had been total and not partial, so was his restored sight . . .‖ ( MC 491). His loss of innocence in

this moment leads to his truer happiness in London among friends and family, where he is loved

for his natural qualities, not exploited for them.

Tom‘s childlike response to the wonders of the Salisbury market indicates yet another of

his natural qualities, his satisfaction with simple, basic necessities. Working for Pecksniff, he

has had little choice, being extremely poor, as the following passage reveals: ―Blessings on thy

simple heart, Tom Pinch, how proudly dost thou button up that scanty coat, called by a sad

misnomer, for these many years, a ‗great‘ one . . . Who could repress a smile—of love for thee,

Tom Pinch, and not in jest at thy expense, for thou art poor enough already, Heaven knows . . .‖

( MC 63). Nevertheless, his poverty is of no apparent concern to Tom. As he tells Mary Graham,

―I am easily made happy . . .‖ ( MC 487). Indeed, one of Tom‘s great pleasures in life is playing

the church organ, which he does without remuneration for the simple joy it gives him. This joy

blinds him to Pecksniff‘s abuse: ―So whenever it was impossible to devise any other means of

taking the value of Tom‘s wages out of him, Mr. Pecksniff gave him leave to cultivate this

instrument. For which mark of his consideration, Tom was very grateful‖ ( MC 485).

As is true for Kate Nickleby, Tom‘s friends and his only remaining family member are

another of Tom‘s most valuable and basic necessities. The importance Tom places on his

friendship with John Westlock, and later with Martin, is demonstrated by his complete loyalty,

even when that loyalty to Martin means giving up any hope he ever had of winning the love of

Mary Graham. But more significant is his relationship with Ruth, his sister. When Tom and

Ruth set up housekeeping together in London, Tom becomes a different man. He is no longer

described as ―ungainly,‖ ―awkward,‖ and ―stooped,‖ but is seen with Ruth ―trotting‖ around

London,

. . . to the baker‘s and the butcher‘s, and the grocer‘s, with a kind of dreadful delight in

the unaccustomed cares of housekeeping; taking secret counsel together as they gave

their small orders, and distracted by the least suggestion on the part of the shopkeeper!

When they got back to the triangular parlour, and Tom‘s sister, bustling to and fro, busy

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about a thousand pleasant nothings, stopped every now and then to give old Tom a kiss,

or smile upon him, Tom rubbed his hands as if all Islington were his. ( MC 576)

He later tells Ruth, ―We are not rich . . . certainly; and we may be much poorer. But we will not

part if we can help it . . . I am certain we shall be happier if we can battle it out together‖ ( MC

600). Dickens summarizes Tom‘s appreciation of life‘s basics, ―Let the record stand! Thy

quality of soul was simple, simple. . .‖ ( MC 618), and makes clear that he commends this

simplicity.

Tom‘s amour de soi becomes apparent as the story develops. As the underling of

Pecksniff, he cannot help but be humbled by the disparagement and maltreatment he receives

from Pecksniff and his daughters. On the other hand, he is gratified by the warm treatment he

receives from Martin, even if Martin‘s words reflect mere fantasies of how he will ―build Tom‘s

fortune‖ if he ―[turns] out a great architect‖ ( MC 192). We are told:

To say that Tom had no idea of playing first fiddle in any social orchestra, but

was always quite satisfied to be set down for the hundred and fiftieth violin in the band,

or thereabouts, is to express his modesty in very inadequate terms. He was much de-

lighted, therefore, by these observations. ( MC 193)

If Tom seems in these instances to be too affected by the opinions of others and too humble to be

natural, his later encounter with Jonas Chuzzlewit demonstrates otherwise:

―Good gracious me!‖ cried Tom, ―who would have thought of its being you! You

followed us, then?‖

―What‘s that to you?‖ said Jonas. ―Go to the devil!‖

―You are not very civil, I think,‖ remarked Tom.

―Civil enough for you ,‖ retorted Jonas. ―Who are you?‖

―One who has as good a right to common consideration as another,‖ said Tom,

mildly. ( MC 389)

Tom continues, ―I am not afraid of many things, I hope . . . and certainly not of anything that you

will do. I am not a tale-bearer, and I despise all meanness. You quite mistake me. Ah! . . . Is

this mainly from one in your position to one in mine? Please make room for me to pass . . .‖

( MC 390). Here Tom acknowledges his inferiority to Jonas according to class standards, but

asserts his equality with him by the simple standards of human worth; Tom gains the upper hand

in this encounter, even before he knocks Jonas to the ground with his own stick.

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Tom exhibits his amour de soi once again on behalf of Ruth, in defending her against her

employers. He tells them:

―When you tell me . . . that my sister has no innate power of commanding the

respect of your children, I must tell you that it is not so; and that she has. She is as well

bred, as well taught, as well qualified by nature to command respect, as any hirer of a

governess you know. . .‖ ( MC 573)

Tom may be meek and unassuming as befitting his social position, but when his human value, or

the value of someone he loves, is under attack, Tom rises to the occasion and responds out of his

basic satisfaction with who he is as a natural man, his amour de soi .

Tom‘s genuineness of character is revealed throughout the novel. Dickens himself calls

Tom ―the Spirit of Truth, in a homely dress‖ ( MC 759); except for one great secret in his life, his

love for Mary, he is an open book for all to read. For most of the novel, Tom keeps his feelings

for Mary hidden. If we see Tom‘s hiding of his feelings as his wearing a mask, we must also

look at his motives; he does not reveal his love because to do so, he feels, would be a selfish act.

While the masks worn by civilized men are worn to aggrandize themselves in the eyes of the

world, Tom‘s mask is worn as a result of his compassion for the other people involved. Seeing

beyond this mask, however, Ruth summarizes his behavior:

―In spite of that [his secret pain], . . . you have been so faithful and so good, dear;

in spite of that, you have been so true and self-denying, and have struggled with yourself;

in spite of that, you have been so gentle, and so kind, and even-tempered, that I have

never seen you give a hasty look, or heard you say one irritable word. . .‖ ( MC 762)

Tom admits the truth of his love to his perceptive sister, but he also expresses his gratitude for

the relationships he has, which are his ―basic necessities‖:

―Remembering all my means of happiness, I hardly dare to call this lurking something a

sorrow; but whatever name it may justly bear, I thank Heaven that it renders me more

sensible of affection and attachment, and softens me in fifty ways. Not less happy. Not

less happy, Ruth!‖ ( MC 764)

Wearing a mask as an act of compassion is one of many examples of this trait in the

character of Tom Pinch. We learn early in the novel that his ―heart was very tender, and he

could not bear to see the most indifferent person in distress‖ ( MC 98). Later we are told, ―To

hesitate in the performance of a good-natured or compassionate office was not in Tom‘s way‖

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( MC 628). This compassion is not surprising to the reader when Tom shows it to those he

loves—Martin, John, Ruth, and Mary—as he does on several occasions, for example when Mary

tells him of Pecksniff‘s villainous plot to marry her: ―Any sight of distress was sure to move the

tenderness of Tom, but this especially. Tears and sobs from her were arrows in his heart‖ ( MC

490). When Martin appears to him after his disappointing encounter with his grandfather in

Chapter 48, Tom‘s response is described as follows: ―High-hearted, noble Tom! Sorry to find

the pride of his old companion humbled, and to hear him speaking in this altered strain, at once,

he drove from his breast the inability to contend with its deep emotions, and spoke out bravely‖

( MC 730), even though Martin is talking about his future with Mary.

The most notable instances of Tom‘s compassion, however, occur when he extends it to

those who have wronged him. As he parts with Pecksniff, ―strangers from this time‖ ( MC 497),

Something without a name; compassion, sorrow, old tenderness, mistaken

gratitude, habit: none of these, and yet all of them; smote upon Tom‘s gentle heart at

parting. There was no such soul as Pecksniff‘s in that carcase; and yet, though his

speaking out had not involved the compromise of one he loved, he couldn‘t have

denounced the very shape and figure of the man. Not even then. ( MC 497)

Similarly, after Mercy Pecksniff has parted from the abusive Jonas, and Tom has parted from her

father, the two meet in London. Although at first she responds to Tom in the ―old manner‖ ( MC

581), we are privy to Tom‘s inner thoughts:

If she had always been his kindest friend; if she had treated him through all his

servitude with such consideration as was never yet received by struggling man; if she had

lightened every moment of those many years, and had ever spared and never wounded

him; his honest heart could not have swelled before her with a deeper pity, or a purer

freedom from all base remembrance than it did then. ( MC 580-81)

In the final revelation and resolution scene in Chapter 52, Old Martin attributes his

change of heart at least in part to Tom. He tells

how, beneath [Mary‘s] gentleness and patience, he had softened more and more; still

more and more beneath the goodness and simplicity, the honour and the manly faith of

Tom. And when he spoke of Tom, he said God bless him; and the tears were in his eyes;

for he said that Tom, mistrusted and dislike by him at first, had come like summer rain

upon his heart; and had disposed it to believe in better things. ( MC 804-805)

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To be certain, Tom Pinch is an agent of redemption in the novel, not only for Old Martin, but for

young Martin as well, and the presence of his natural characteristics makes his agency possible.

Some critics claim that Martin Chuzzlewit signals the beginning of Dickens‘s dark

pessimism, due to his disappointment and disillusionment with America and Americans,

portrayed satirically in the novel. Yet following closely on the heels of Martin Chuzzlewit in

Dickens‘s literary chronology comes A Christmas Carol , which is anything but pessimistic,

depicting the reclamation, albeit by a supernatural vehicle, of a wholly corrupted man.

Several characters in the novel exhibit natural traits. The Fezziwigs exhibit generosity,

benevolence, and a mode of existence ruled by inner values rather than society‘s opinions, not

only by giving a Christmas party for their employees, but by joining in the party without any

trace of condescending superiority. Belle demonstrates amour de soi in her refusal to continue

her relationship with a corrupted Scrooge, a relationship that now violates her personal principles

with his emphasis on ―the master-passion, Gain‖ ( CC 65). The members of the Cratchit family

portray, if not complete satisfaction with basic necessities, the ability to find happiness in the

little they do have because they share it with each other. Fred shows a genuineness in his

determined attempts to convince his uncle of the merits of the Christmas season. And of course,

Tiny Tim is the picture of innocence. But because A Christmas Carol is only five chapters long,

and is the story of one man‘s redemption, no one other character in the story is developed fully

enough to qualify as a natural man.

Accepting the often-expressed view that David Copperfield is Dickens‘s most

autobiographical novel, we can perhaps understand why few characters stand out as unbelievably

good. There are a number of good characters in the novel, but their portrayal, for the most part,

is realistic rather than idealistic and romantic. We find no Pickwicks or Cheerybles, whose

benevolence defines them, no Oliver Twist, whose innocence, although incredible, endears him

to the reader. The proverbial ―angel in the house,‖ Agnes Wickfield, remains in the background

until virtually the end of the novel, and Tommy Traddles, a seemingly faultless young man, is

only a minor character. Instead of being filled with caricatures (although some appear), the

novel is peopled with characters who are good but flawed, and thus credible. Among these

characters is one who exhibits all the traits of the natural man—Daniel Peggotty.

Mr. Peggotty demonstrates his amour de soi and the concomitant traits of genuineness

and satisfaction with life‘s basics on several occasions in the novel. Upon his introduction to

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David in Chapter III, he says, ―Glad to see you, sir . . . You‘ll find us rough, sir, but you‘ll find

us ready‖ ( DC 27), a phrase he repeats when he first meets James Steerforth: ―I‘m rough, sir, but

I‘m ready‖ ( DC 90). Mr. Peggotty does not seem self-conscious or apologize for who he is; nor

does he make any real apology for his accommodations when offering hospitality to Steerforth:

―My house ain‘t much for to see, sir, but it‘s hearty at your service if ever you should come

along with Mas‘r Davy to see it‖ ( DC 90).

The ―hearty‖ home of Mr. Peggotty is so because of the value he has placed on the

relationships within it. To him, these are the necessities of life, and his genuineness of feeling

shines through as David describes his response to Little Em‘ly:

It was perfectly delightful to behold with what enthusiasm Mr. Peggotty became

inspired when he thought of his little favorite. He stands before me again, his bluff hairy

face irradiating with a joyful love and pride, for which I can find no description. His

honest eyes fire up, and sparkle, as if their depths were stirred by something bright. His

broad chest heaves with pleasure. His strong loose hands clench themselves, in his

earnestness; and he emphasises what he says, with a right arm that shows, in my pigmy

view, like a sledge-hammer. ( DC 89)

After Emily is betrothed to Ham, Mr. Peggotty‘s devotion to her continues. He declares:

― I know wery well that arter she‘s married and gone, I shall put that candle theer, just the

same as now. I know very well that when I‘m here o‘ nights (and where else should I

live, bless your arts, whatever fortun‘ I come into!) and she ain‘t here, or I ain‘t theer, I

shall put the candle in the winder, and sit afore the fire, pretending I‘m expecting of her,

like I‘m a doin‘ now.‖ ( DC 384)

In the end, Mr. Peggotty is willing to give up his home and his profession in order to make a

better life for this one necessity, ―his little favorite.‖

Mr. Peggotty also demonstrates his innocence in regard to Emily, explaining that his

feelings for her are a result of his having raised her from a child and, in effect, being a child

along with her. He says,

―. . . this is along of my havin‘ played with her so much, and made believe as we was

Turks, and French, and sharks, and every wariety of forinners—bless you, yes; and lions

and whales, and I doen‘t know what all!—when she warn‘t no higher than my knee. . .

There’s a babby for you, in the form of a Sea Porkypine!‖ ( DC 384)

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But this innocence, of course, obstructs his vision and keeps him from seeing the treachery

behind the smiles of James Steerforth; he is not alone, however, in his failure to perceive the

truth.

The most notable example of Mr. Peggotty‘s amour de soi and his natural dignity comes

when he meets Mrs. Steerforth (Chapter XXXII) after Emily‘s elopement with James. He is not

cowed by her class superiority: ―She looked very stedfastly at Mr. Peggotty when he stood

before her; and he looked, quite as stedfastly at her‖ ( DC 399). He recognizes the difference in

their status, but while he accepts this social reality, he also realizes that it should not be. He

speaks to her of ―[biding] the time when all of us shall be alike in quality afore our God!‖ ( DC

400). And finally, he expresses his disdain for her offer of money ―for [his] child‘s blight and

ruin‖ ( DC 400). While Mr. Peggotty receives nothing satisfactory from his visit with Mrs.

Steerforth, he departs with his dignity intact, a true sign of amour de soi .

In this instance and throughout the novel, Mr. Peggotty reveals his reliance on inner

standards of personal judgment as opposed to the standards imposed by society. Mrs. Steerforth

makes obvious her view of Emily as ―far below him [Steerforth],‖ ―uneducated and ignorant,‖

and having ―humble connexions‖ ( DC 400). Yet, Mr. Peggotty sees these criticisms as part of a

superficial, worldly evaluative measure, one that has no bearings on his feelings for Emily or on

his views of other people. In the eyes of society, Emily is now forever fallen, but in the eyes of

Mr. Peggotty, she is and always will be his precious ―Little Em‘ly,‖ the victim of a handsome

face and the desire for life as a lady. It takes Emily‘s fallenness to soften his judgment of

Martha, whose aid in locating Emily, along with Mr. Peggotty‘s forgiveness and acceptance of

her, help to bring about Martha‘s redemption. In fact, the compassion that he extends to both

Martha and Emily is redemptive for all three of them.

If there is one natural trait in Mr. Peggotty that is obvious throughout the novel it is his

compassion. From the beginning when we learn that he not only adopted Ham, the son of his

brother, and Emily, the daughter of his brother-in-law, both of whom were ―drowndead‖ ( DC

28), but that he also took in Mrs. Gummidge, the widow of his business partner, we are aware of

his tender feelings toward the downtrodden. According to Dennis Walder, ―He has already

fulfilled the requirements of merciful fatherhood, having brought together into his ‗ark‘ the

orphaned and neglected, the outcast and dispossessed . . .‖ (151-52). Yet he wants no thanks for

his radical hospitality. Clara Peggotty tells David that

74

the only subject . . . on which he ever showed a violent temper or swore an oath, was this

generosity of his; and if it were ever referred to, by any one of them, he struck the table a

heavy blow with his right hand (had split it on one such occasion), and swore a dreadful

oath that he would be ―Gormed‖ if he didn‘t cut and run for good, if it was ever

mentioned again. ( DC 29)

Mr. Peggotty exhibits extreme patience with the often-contrary Mrs. Gummidge, explaining and

excusing her behavior by the phrase, ―She‘s been thinking of the old ‘un!‖ ( DC 35), and

addressing her, ―Cheer up, my pretty mawther!‖ ( DC 383). David, too, is the recipient of his

compassion when Mr. Peggotty and Ham visit him at Salem House after he has been sent away

from his mother by the Murdstones.

But the ultimate show of Mr. Peggotty‘s compassion is seen when Emily disappears with

Steerforth. He first expresses the desire for violent revenge on Steerforth, but these feelings

quickly give way to the concern and sympathy he feels for Emily. The night before he embarks

on his solitary journey to find her, he tells David:

―My wishes is, sir, as it [the boat/home] shall look, day and night, winter and

summer, as it has always looked, since she fust know‘d it. If ever she should come a

wandering back, I wouldn‘t have the old place seem to cast her off, you understand, but

seem to tempt her to draw nigher to ‘t, and to peep in, maybe, like a ghost, out of the

wind and rain, through the old winder, at the old seat by the fire. Then, maybe, Mas‘r

Davy, seein‘ none but Missis Gummidge there, she might take heart to creep in,

trembling; and might come to be laid down in her old bed, and rest her weary head

where it was once so gay.‖ ( DC 389-90)

His recurring dream, which he relates to David when they are together once again in London,

involves telling Emily, ―Em‘ly, my dear, I am come fur to bring forgiveness, and to take you

home!‖ ( DC 500). After being reunited with her, for a brief moment he feels ―a wownd go to

[his] ‘art‖ ( DC 619) as he contemplates the Biblical story of the woman caught in the act of

adultery, but once again his joy at finding her and his compassion for her suffering replace any

feeling of judgment he feels.

Of course, the most significant of Mr. Peggotty‘s compassionate actions comes in the last

chapters when he takes Emily to Australia, beyond the reach of societal scorn, to begin life anew.

But most notable is his inclusion of Martha and Mrs. Gummidge in both his traveling party and

75

his new life. And finally, upon his return to England to visit David and his new bride, we see

him for the last time at the grave of Ham, taking a tuft of grass back to Emily as a final deed of

compassion for both of his adoptive children.

Even though Mr. Peggotty, by his own admission, is ―rough,‖ even though he would like

to see physical harm done to James Steerforth, even though he judges Martha harshly to begin

with and feels a moment of that same judgment for Emily, he is a true natural man by

Rousseau‘s standards. Some critics would claim that the absence of a Pickwick, a Brownlow, or

a Cheeryble in the novel indicates a more pessimistic outlook for Dickens. The presence of a

Dan Peggotty, however, perhaps indicates instead a more mature viewpoint in which in spite of a

man‘s flaws, he may still qualify as natural and admirable.

Interestingly, while certain critics maintain that Dickens became less optimistic as he

aged, and that this darkening world view is reflected in his last novels, Great Expectations

contains one of the most purely natural characters of his whole literary corpus—Joe Gargery. It

is Joe who provides the poignancy in the story, as Pip‘s desire to seek out his life of great

expectations involves a rejection of the plain and simple Joe. Yet the reader sees throughout the

novel Joe‘s constancy and the natural qualities that define him as a foil to the ambitious Pip.

Pip‘s early physical description of Joe establishes him as the angel in the Gargery house:

Joe was a fair man, with curls of flaxen hair on each side of his smooth face, and with

eyes of such a very undecided blue that they seemed to have somehow got mixed with

their own whites. He was a mild, good-natured, sweet-tempered, easy-going, foolish,

dear fellow—a sort of Hercules in strength, and also in weakness. ( GE 8)

Later in the novel as Pip prepares to leave Joe for London, he apostrophizes, ―O dear good

faithful tender Joe, I feel the loving tremble of your hand upon my arm, as solemnly this day as if

it had been the rustle of an angel‘s wing!‖ ( GE 140).

The innocence of Joe is obvious from the beginning of the novel, being revealed in

several ways. First, Joe is Pip‘s ―fellow-sufferer‖ under the stern hand of his wife and Pip‘s

sister, Mrs. Joe. He rarely if ever does anything to incite her wrath, yet he receives physically

and verbally abusive blows almost as often as Pip does. Early on she is pictured ―taking him by

the two whiskers‖ and ―[knocking] his head for a little while against the wall behind him‖ ( GE

12). Yet Joe never responds to this abuse and continues to think the best of his wife, just as he

gives his abusive father the same benefit. He tells Pip, ―. . . my mother and me we ran away

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from my father, several times . . . But my father were that good in his hart that he couldn‘t abear

to be without us . . . And then he took us home and hammered us‖ ( GE 47). Remarkably, Joe has

survived this negative nurture and remained natural.

Secondly, Joe behaves on occasion more like the child Pip than the man he is. In fact,

even Pip regards him as a child: ―I always treated him as a larger species of child, and as no

more than my equal‖ ( GE 9). The two play games involving the bites taken of their bread and

butter, and Joe always takes Pip‘s side when Mrs. Joe applies the Tickler. The main attraction

for Joe of having Pip as his apprentice is his dream of the ―Larks‖ the two will have together.

When Biddy writes Pip a letter announcing Joe‘s impending visit to London, the only message

Joe sends is ― what larks ‖ ( GE 218), a message he knows Pip will understand.

Joe also exhibits a childlike gullibility on occasion. For instance, after his first visit with

Miss Havisham, Pip returns telling tales of Miss Havisham sitting ―in a black velvet coach‖ ( GE

68), having ―cake and wine on gold plates‖ ( GE 68), four ―immense‖ dogs fighting for ―veal-

cutlets out of a silver basket‖ ( GE 68). Not only does Joe believe Pip‘s stories, but Mrs. Joe and

Pumblechook swallow them as well; they both see these reports as an indication of the riches Pip

stands to gain from Miss Havisham. On the other hand, Joe‘s sole interest is the dogs and the

veal cutlets, and his only hope is that Pip will be given one of the dogs, just as a child might

hope. Later in London, Joe reports on Wopsle‘s stage performance as if it were real:

―. . . there certainly were a peck of orangepeel. Partickler, when he see the ghost.

Though I put it to yourself, sir, whether it were calc‘lated to keep a man up to his work

with a good hart, to be continiwally cutting in betwixt him and the Ghost with ‗Amen!‘

A man may have had a misfortun‘ and been in the Church . . . but that is no reason why

you should put him out at such a time. Which I meantersay, if the ghost of a man‘s own

father cannot be allowed to claim his attention, what can, Sir?‖ ( GE 220-21)

Finally, Joe‘s innocence is revealed in his refusal to condone or accept any behavior that

might be construed as dishonest. When ―the strange man‖ gives Pip a shilling wrapped in two

pound notes, Joe thinks the notes were given by mistake, and he runs immediately with them

back to the Jolly Bargemen ―to restore them to their owner‖ ( GE 79). He also shows this quality

in his disapproval of Pip‘s lying about the riches at Satis House. He tells Pip, ―There‘s one thing

you may be sure of, Pip . . . namely, that lies is lies. Howsever they come, they didn‘t ought to

come, and they come from the father of lies, and work round to the same. Don‘t you tell no

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more of ‘em, Pip‖ ( GE 71). He goes on to say, ―If you can‘t get to be oncommon through going

straight, you‘ll never get to do it through going crooked. So don‘t tell no more on ‘em, Pip, and

live well and die happy‖ ( GE 72). Joe has already proven that he himself lives by these words.

Like his predecessors, the natural men of earlier novels, Joe is notably compassionate.

He shows this trait as early as Chapter V, when in answer to the convict‘s apology for eating

Mrs. Joe‘s pie, Joe says, ―God knows you‘re welcome to it—so far as it was ever mine . . . We

don‘t know what you have done, but we wouldn‘t have you starved to death for it, poor

miserable fellow-creatur.—Would us, Pip?‖ ( GE 41). But of course the compassion Joe shows

to Pip most particularly emphasizes the difference between the two characters. From the

beginning of Joe‘s marriage to Mrs. Joe, he includes Pip in his household:

―When I offered to your sister to keep company, and to be asked in church at such times

as she was willing and ready to come to the forge, I said to her, ‗And bring the poor little

child. God bless the poor little child,‘ I said to your sister, ‗there‘s room for him at the

forge!‘‖ ( GE 49)

However, Joe realizes that his marriage and the consequent bringing of Pip into their home has

provoked Pip‘s abuse by Mrs. Joe. Joe speaks these words of apology and self-sacrifice: ―I wish

it was only me that got put out, Pip; I wish there warn‘t no Tickler for you, old chap; I wish I

could take it all on myself . . .‖ ( GE 51).

Even more significant is Joe‘s show of compassion after Pip has treated him so

unfeelingly. It is Joe who nurses Pip back to health in London during and after his fever. Pip

perceives his gentle presence even before he is coherent enough to know what is going on around

him:

After I had turned the worst point of my illness, I began to notice that while all its

other features changed, this one consistent feature did not change. Whoever came about

me, still settled down into Joe. I opened my eyes in the night, and I saw in the great chair

at the bedside, Joe. I opened my eyes in the day, and sitting on the window-seat,

smoking his pipe in the shaded open window, still I saw Joe. I asked for cooling drink,

and the dear hand that gave it me was Joe‘s. I sank back on my pillow after drinking, and

the face that looked so hopefully and tenderly upon me was the face of Joe. ( GE 459)

For a brief period, Joe and Pip enjoy the relationship they once had. Pip explains, ―He would sit

and talk to me in the old confidence, and with the old simplicity, and in the old unassertive

78

protecting way, so that I would half believe that all my life since the days of the old kitchen was

one of mental troubles of the fever that was gone‖ ( GE 462). As Pip regains his strength, Joe‘s

compassion takes the form of removing himself again from Pip‘s life, expecting to be out of

place once more, now that Pip no longer needs him. Only after Joe leaves does Pip realize that

he has paid the debts and other charges which had been the cause of Pip‘s arrest. Joe‘s tender

care, both physical and financial, his emotional response to Pip‘s recovery, and his subsequent

departure from London indicate a gracious and forgiving heart that could only belong to a natural

man whose compassion is a ruling characteristic.

The most notable of Joe‘s natural traits, however, are those which involve his views of

himself and his life at the forge. Joe‘s character is one of few in literature that do not change

from beginning to end of the novel. At the end when Pip, recovering from his fever, is realizing

his grave mistakes in seeking his expectations, he comments, ―There was no change whatever in

Joe. Exactly what he had been in my eyes then, he was in my eyes still; just as simply faithful,

and as simply right‖ ( GE 463). Joe exhibits a type of amour de soi by which he acknowledges

his shortcomings yet accepts himself for who he is. He tells Pip at one point, ―I‘m so awful dull.

I‘m only master of my own trade. It were always a pity as I was so awful dull; but it‘s no more

of a pity now, than it was—this day twelvemonth—don‘t you see!‖ ( GE 146). Earlier Pip has

tried to teach Joe to read and write, but Pip interprets Joe‘s lack of success as his having ―plumed

himself on being ‗most awful dull‘ . . .‖ ( GE 109). Perhaps Joe is somewhat dull; however, he

has not an ambitious bone in his body, so he sees dullness as acceptable for one of his station.

For Joe, the greatest benefit of these instructional interludes is simply the time he gets to spend

with Pip.

Biddy also tries to explain to Pip the reasons that Joe might not want to move ―into a

higher sphere‖ ( GE 147) of society. Critical of Joe‘s ―backwardness,‖ his lack of learning and

his unpolished manners, Pip responds to Biddy‘s suggestion that Joe might be proud ―with

disdainful emphasis‖ ( GE 147). She explains, ―Oh! there are many kinds of pride . . .; pride is

not all of one kind—. . . Not all of one kind . . . He may be too proud to let any one take him out

of a place that he is competent to fill, and fills well and with respect‖ ( GE 147). Biddy admits

that pride is only a possibility with Joe, and evidence suggests that not pride, but true

contentedness would prevent Joe‘s removal ―to a higher sphere.‖ Even Pip realizes this, having

described Joe earlier as ―plain contented Joe‖ ( GE 107).

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Because Joe has no desires to enter society beyond that which he finds at the Jolly

Bargemen, he displays a genuineness that is rarely seen in the pages of Dickens. Joe expresses

the premium he places on honesty in the previously discussed sermonette given to Pip regarding

the importance of telling the truth. He genuinely expresses his thoughts and emotions

throughout the novel, except, perhaps, to Mrs. Joe. But the clearest sense we get of who Joe is

comes through the clothing that he sometimes feels compelled to wear. We see the contrast

between his comfort in his forge clothes and the discomfort in the clothes he feels he must wear

in church, in Miss Havisham‘s house, and in London the first time with Pip. The first instance

we see of this is in Chapter IV. Pip remarks,

In his working clothes, Joe was a well-knit characteristic-looking blacksmith; in his

holiday clothes, he was more like a scarecrow in good circumstances, than anything else.

Nothing that he wore then, fitted him or seemed to belong to him; and everything that he

wore then, grazed him. On the present festive occasion he emerged from his room, when

the blithe bells were going, the picture of misery, in a full suit of Sunday penitentials.

( GE 23)

The next occasion we see him in these clothes is the day he and Pip are to visit Miss Havisham.

Again Pip comments, ―. . . as he thought his courtsuit necessary to the occasion, it was not for me

to tell him that he looked far better in his working dress; the rather, because I knew he made

himself so dreadfully uncomfortable, entirely on my account . . .‖ ( GE 99).

The final occasion on which Pip describes Joe‘s clothes is when Joe comes to Pip‘s

lodgings in London for the first time. Describing Joe‘s shirt and coat collars as ―insoluble

mysteries‖ ( GE 222) and his cravat as ―utterly preposterous‖ ( GE 223), Pip asks, ―Why should a

man scrape himself to that extent, before he could consider himself full dressed? Why should he

suppose it necessary to be purified by suffering for his holiday clothes?‖ ( GE 222). The answer

is found in what Joe thinks is his final goodbye to Pip, at the end of this London visit:

―You and me is not two figures to be together in London; nor yet anywheres else but

what is private, and beknown, and understood among friends. It ain‘t that I am proud, but

that I want to be right, as you shall never see me no more in these clothes. I‘m wrong in

these clothes. I‘m wrong out of the forge, the kitchen, or off th‘ meshes. You won‘t find

half so much fault in me if you think of me in my forge dress, with my hammer in my

hand, or even my pipe. You won‘t find half so much fault in me if, supposing as you

80

should ever wish to see me, you come and put your head in at the forge winder and see

Joe the blacksmith, there, at the old anvil, in the old burnt apron, sticking to the old work.

I‘m awful dull, but I hope I‘ve beat out something nigh the rights of this at last . . .‖ ( GE

224-25)

Pip‘s response is equally notable: ―I had not been mistaken in my fancy that there was a simple

dignity in him. The fashion of his dress could no more come in its way when he spoke these

words, than it could come in its way in Heaven‖ ( GE 225). Joe has expressed several times in

the novel his desire to ―be right‖; his dressing in his ―best‖ clothes reveals this desire concretely,

and his speech negates the possibility that he is dressing differently in order to impress others. In

other words, clothes for Joe are not a mask worn to hide his true self, and Pip‘s response

confirms the dignity to be found in Joe‘s genuineness.

The final remark on Joe‘s clothing as a sign of his genuineness comes after the funeral of

Mrs. Joe. Pip notes, ―I noticed that after the funeral Joe changed his clothes so far, as to make a

compromise between his Sunday dress and working dress: in which the dear fellow looked

natural, and like the Man he was‖ ( GE 281). Dickens‘s use of the word natural and the

capitalization of the word Man may be coincidental; however, even if they are, the point is made

that Joe is now back to his genuine self once more.

Another aspect of Joe‘s genuineness, and of his naturalness, is the inner rule he follows.

His desire to ―be right‖ determines his actions throughout the novel. By this he does not mean

that he wants to be right as opposed to someone else‘s being wrong. He wants to do the right

thing, to treat others well, to live honestly and forthrightly. With regard to his meekness in the

presence of his wife, he tells Pip,

I see so much in my poor mother, of a woman drudging and slaving and breaking her

honest hart and never getting no peace in her mortal days, that I‘m dead afeerd of going

wrong in the way of not doing what‘s right by a woman, and I‘d fur rather of the two go

wrong the t‘other way, and be a little ill-conwenienced myself.‖ ( GE 50-51)

Most readers, and of course Pip, would not blame Joe for rebelling against the abusive treatment

both he and Pip receive from Mrs. Joe; however, once Pip hears ―the up-and-down-and-straight

on it‖ from Joe, he ―[dates] a new admiration of Joe from that night‖ ( GE 51). In spite of this

admiration, Joe makes clear that he follows his inner rule, not seeking the approval or the

admiration of others, at least not for his choice of wife. He says, ―Whatever family opinions, or

81

whatever the world‘s opinions, on that subject may be, Pip, your sister is . . . a—fine—figure—

of—a—woman!‖ ( GE 48).

Finally, Joe demonstrates a satisfaction with life‘s basic necessities, seen already in his

simplicity and his satisfaction with his life as a blacksmith. He tells the boy Pip, ―Give me . . . a

good book, or a good newspaper, and sit me down afore a good fire, and I ask no better‖ ( GE

47). Of course, Joe cannot read at this point, but he takes pleasure in finding the J‘s and the O‘s

in the printed word. Unlike Pip, Mrs. Joe, Pumblechook, and countless others, Joe has no ―great

expectations‖ of money, reward, or payment for his actions. Upon receiving twenty five guineas

from Miss Havisham he says (to Pip instead of the donor), ―This is wery liberal on your part,

Pip, . . . and it is as such received and grateful welcome, though never looked for, far nor near

nor nowheres ( GE 101). Later he tells Jaggers, ―Pip is that hearty welcome . . . to go free with

his services, to honour and fortun‘, as no words can tell him. But if you think as Money—can

make compensation to me—for the loss of the little child—what come to the forge—and ever the

best of friends!—‖ ( GE 140). Joe also finds the fact that Pip has ―always wanted to be a

gentleman‖ ―Astonishing!‖ ( GE 146). Joe clearly values love and friendship over money and

expectations.

Joe spends much of the novel in solitude, even if not actually alone. He lives with a first

wife who shows him neither love nor companionship, and he loses his one friend when that

friend is still a boy. As mentioned in the beginning of this chapter, Joe is also solitary as a

natural man in this novel. He is found mostly in the forge, away from the village and town, and

certainly away from London society, and this is as it should be. Joe lacks the deadly social

ambition, the pretense, and the greed that almost every other character displays—with one other

exception. The only other natural character in the novel is Biddy, who becomes Joe‘s second

wife and who provides the fitting remedy for Joe‘s solitude without endangering his pure

naturalness.

In Dickens‘s final completed novel, Our Mutual Friend , the choice of the natural man is

not so cut and dried. A small handful of possibilities appear—Reginald Wilfer, Lizzie Hexam,

and even John Harmon, for instance—but the nearest match is Nicodemus ―Noddy‖ Boffin, the

Golden Dustman. Some critics would disagree as to Boffin‘s suitability for this designation due

to the extensive ―pious fraud‖ in which he plays the starring role. And to be sure, he plays his

part convincingly. He dons the mask of a miser, thus portraying two characteristics of

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Rousseau‘s civilized man, pretense and greed, in one guise. Yet it is only a guise, and his fraud

is a pious one in which the character of a young impressionable girl is rescued from corruption

by wealth. According to Newsom, ―It is Boffin‘s pretended miserliness and concomitant

wretched treatment of Harmon that finally elicits Bella‘s love for Harmon and proves that her

love for him is far stronger than her love of money‖ (158-59). Other critics level the complaint

that Boffin cannot be as good as he seems to be if he is able to present such a believable façade.

But Barnard explains, ―Even in this, one of his most pessimistic novels, Dickens goes out of his

way to point to the incorruptibility of certain individuals, and to the enduring strength of natural

goodness‖ (124-25). Boffin, of course, is one of these individuals, learning from the stories of

famous misers how to behave as one himself. From the beginning through the end of Book II,

Boffin displays natural traits, at which time he assumes his role as a cruel, money-driven man.

Not until five chapters from the end does he confess his fraud and resume his natural character.

Whether or not the plot line and characterization are believable here, Dickens gives convincing

evidence through these parts of the novel that Noddy Boffin qualifies as a natural man.

Our Mutual Friend is replete with characters who are greedy and who will resort to any

measures to increase their worldly wealth, who, in Rousseauean terms, are ―civilized.‖ Noddy

Boffin, the wealthiest character in the novel, having inherited the Harmon fortune, is also the

least greedy. He is satisfied with the bare necessities, as we see the first time Silas Wegg visits

Boffin‘s Bower. Noddy says, ―Mrs. Boffin, as I‘ve mentioned, is a highflyer at Fashion; at

present I‘m not. I don‘t go higher than comfort, and comfort of the sort that I‘m equal to the

enjoyment of‖ ( OMF 63). He, who hopes that ―good may be coming of [their fortune] in the

future time‖ in order to redeem it from the ill usage of Old Harmon, sees no need to change their

lifestyle to match their new station. Although Mrs. Boffin is described as ―simple of nature‖

( OMF 104), she does believe that they should ―act up to‖ their fortune ( OMF 104). The differing

views are seen in this interchange:

― I say, a good house in a good neighbourhood, good things about us, good living,

and good society. I say, live like our means, without extravagance, and be happy.‖

―Yes. I say be happy, too,‖ assented the still pensive Mr. Boffin. ( OMF 104)

Mr. Boffin, on the other hand, simply wants to be happy. While Mrs. Boffin dreams of ―a light

yellow chariot and pair, with silver boxes to the wheels‖ ( OMF 104), we are told that their actual

equipage is

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a long hammer-headed old horse, formerly used in the business, attached to a four-

wheeled chaise of the same period, which had long been exclusively used by the

Harmony Jail poultry as the favourite laying-place of several discreet hens. An unwonted

application of corn to the horse, and of paint and varnish to the carriage, when both fell in

as a part of the Boffin legacy, had made what Mr. Boffin considered a neat turn-out of the

whole; and a driver being added, in the person of a long hammer-headed young man who

was a very good match for the horse, left nothing to be desired. ( OMF 106)

Although we are told that when the Boffins are seated in this vehicle ―Fashion [is] withdrawn to

an immeasurable distance‖ ( OMF 106), Noddy is quite satisfied with it.

In fact, it seems that Noddy would have been satisfied and happy without any of the

advantages his inheritance brings. When John Rokesmith offers to become his secretary, he

replies, ―I no more know that I may ever want a Secretary, or what not, than I do that I shall ever

be in want of the man in the moon‖ ( OMF 102). After hiring Rokesmith, he shows him the one

dust mound that he would have inherited before the entire state became his, and confides, ―It

would have been enough for us . . . in case it had pleased God to spare the last of those two

young lives and sorrowful deaths. We didn‘t want the rest‖ ( OMF 185). But at the request of

Mrs. Boffin, the couple move to an ―eminently aristocratic family mansion‖ ( OMF 303), where

he could not but feel that, like an eminently aristocratic family cheese, it was much too

large for his wants, and bred an infinite amount of parasites; but he was content to regard

this drawback on his propertyas a sort of perpetual Legacy Duty. He felt the more

resigned to it, forasmuch as Mrs. Boffin enjoyed herself completely, and Miss Bella was

delighted. ( OMF 303-304)

Even in their new abode, Boffin has his own room much like the one he had at Boffin‘s Bower:

Far less grand than the rest of the house, it was far more comfortable, being pervaded by

a certain air of homely snugness, which upholstering despotism had banished to that spot

when it inexorably set its face against Mr. Boffin‘s appeals for any other chamber. Thus,

although a room of modest situation . . . and of no pretensions to velvet, satin, or gilding,

it had got itself established in a domestic position analogous to that of an easy dressing-

gown or pair of slippers; and whenever the family wanted to enjoy a particularly pleasant

fireside evening, they enjoyed it, as an institution that must be, in Mr. Boffin‘s room.

( OMF 456)

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The final proof of Mr. Boffin‘s satisfaction with life‘s necessities comes in the final

pages, after he has returned to his natural character. We learn that according to the last will of

old Harmon, Boffin truly is the heir of the Harmon fortune, but that he has given it all, except for

his single mound, to the rightful heir, John Harmon, who had been disowned by his father.

Harmon explains to the villain Wegg, ―I owe everything I possess solely to the disinterestedness,

uprightness, tenderness, goodness (there are no words to satisfy me) of Mr. and Mrs. Boffin‖

( OMF 768). Boffin, dubbed by Harmon a ―noble soul‖ ( OMF 768), is now free to return to the

life with which he is comfortable, openly treasuring his wife above all else, as he indicates earlier

in the novel: ―. . . It‘s pleasant to know that you are Mrs. Boffin . . . and it‘s been a pleasant thing

to know this many and many a year!‖ ( OMF 105).

Just as Boffin may be contrasted with the greedy multitudes around him, he is also

different, for most of the novel, from the numbers of people who wear masks to disguise their

true identities or their true intentions. Ironically for one who plays his pious fraud so credibly,

Boffin is recognized by most who know him for his genuineness of character. Rokesmith tells

him early in their acquaintance, ―I have been strongly assured that you are a man of rectitude and

plain dealing, with the soundest of sound hearts . . .‖ ( OMF 100). He continues, ―When I add, I

can discern for myself what the general tongue says of you—that you are quite unspoiled by

Fortune, and not uplifted—I trust you will not, as a man of an open nature, suspect that I mean to

flatter you . . .‖ ( OMF 101). Even old Harmon had recognized that the Boffins are ―honest and

true‖ ( OMF 106).

Boffin often declares himself to be exactly what others usually perceive him to be. In

their first meeting with the Wilfers, he tells Mrs. Wilfer, ―Mrs. Boffin and me, ma‘am, are plain

people, and we don‘t want to pretend to anything, nor yet to go round and round at anything:

because there‘s always a straight way to everything‖ ( OMF 112). Seen in contrast to the

pretentious Mrs. Wilfer, as well as so many of the other characters, Mr. Boffin‘s honesty and

genuineness are even more pronounced.

Boffin often reveals his true nature with regard to his lack of education and ignorance of

the finer aspects of fashionable society. He admits to Silas Wegg, ―. . . all print is shut to me‖

( OMF 57), thus opening the door for Wegg to become his personal reader, at first of ―Decline-

and- Fall-Off-The-Rooshan Empire‖ ( OMF 59) and other works. In discussing the possibility of

hiring Rokesmith as his Secretary, Boffin tells him,

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―It rather puzzled me at the time . . . and it rather puzzled me and Mrs. Boffin

when we spoke of it afterwards, because (not to make a mystery of our belief) we have

always believed a Secretary to be a piece of furniture, mostly of mahogany, lined with

green baize or leather, with a lot of little drawers in it. Now you won‘t think I take a

liberty when I mention that you certainly ain‘t that .‖ ( OMF 180)

Boffin makes no apology for his ignorance in either case; he simply states forthrightly what he

does and does not know. He also tells Rokesmith, ―I ain‘t a scholar in much, Rokesmith, but I‘m

a pretty fair scholar in dust. I can price the Mounds to a fraction, and I know how they can be

best disposed of, and likewise that they take no harm by standing where they do‖ ( OMF 186).

As indicated previously, for a significant part of the novel, Boffin is not genuine. Even

during this time of the pious fraud, however, we catch glimpses of his real character. We are

told:

The breakfast table at Mr. Boffin‘s was usually a very pleasant one, and was

always presided over by Bella. As though he began each new day in his healthy natural

character, and some waking hours were necessary to his relapse into the corrupting

influences of his wealth, the face and the demeanour of the Golden Dustman were

generally unclouded at that meal. It would have been easy to believe then, that there was

no change in him. ( OMF 574-75)

No explanation is given for this lapse in the fraud; the reader might conjecture that he usually

does not remember the role he is playing until he has had his morning caffeine, or that as a

natural man he needs brief relief from the pressure of being other than he naturally is.

Nevertheless, the lack of explanation is a moot point on the morning on which this is noted; he is

quite clearly masked and acting his part as the cruel miser from the moment he enters the room.

Concomitant with genuineness, Boffin also reveals his innocence and simplicity. As his

discussions regarding secretaries and his tastes in home furnishings show, Boffin is set apart

from his fellows in society by his lack of worldly wisdom. When Rokesmith goes to work as his

secretary, we are told, ―One part of the Secretary‘s conduct, underlying all the rest, might have

been mistrusted by a man with a better knowledge of men than the Golden Dustman had‖ ( OMF

193), and in the next paragraph, ―This might—let it be repeated—have awakened some little

vague mistrust in a man more worldly-wise than the Golden Dustman‖ ( OMF 193). Yet in

Boffin it does not. His need for Rokesmith‘s services, however, has become apparent when the

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Boffins are pictured as ―prey to prosperity,‖ due to his ineptitude at handling business matters:

―Many disordered papers were before him, and he looked at them about as hopefully as an

innocent civilian might look at a crowd of troops whom he was required at five minutes‘ notice

to manœuvre and review‖ ( OMF 179).

Boffin‘s innocence also takes a form that puts him at risk for predators like Silas Wegg.

Much like Pickwick, Boffin in the beginning of the novel is oblivious to the possibility that

anyone might want to take advantage of him. He takes great pains to avoid offending Wegg by

hiring Rokesmith, and this plays right into Wegg‘s hands:

The man of low cunning had, of course, acquired a mastery over the man of high

simplicity. The mean man had, of course, got the better of the generous man. How long

such conquests last is another matter; that they are achieved is every-day experience, not

even to be flourished away by Podsnappery itself. The undesigning Boffin had become

so far immeshed by the wily Wegg that his mind misgave him he was a very designing

man indeed in purposing to do more for Wegg. It seemed to him (so skilful was Wegg)

that he was plotting darkly, when he was contriving to do the very thing that Wegg was

plotting to get him to do. ( OMF 186-87)

Mr. Venus reveals to Boffin Wegg‘s villainous plan to take control of his fortune, thus denting

Boffin‘s innocence to some extent; Boffin proves himself capable of design as he successfully

carries out his pious fraud. For the most part, however, Boffin‘s innocence is preserved to the

end, as shown in the scene in which he, Mrs. Boffin, and John admit their fraud. Here he is

described as having a ―shining countenance,‖ ―a perfectly beneficent air . . . like some jovial

good spirit,‖ and Bella asks along with the reader, ―What had become of all those crooked lines

of suspicion, avarice, and distrust, that twisted his visage‖ ( OMF 749) the last time she saw him?

In true Pickwickian style, Boffin is ―beaming at every one and everything he could see‖ ( OMF

749). To him the fraud was merely a game the end of which he already knew—that Bella would

pass the test, and renounce wealth for true love—and his enjoyment of the game and its happy

ending signals his still-present childlike innocence.

The ending of the fraud also gives opportunity for the reader to see Boffin‘s amour de

soi . Earlier we saw his realistic and appreciative opinion of his own knowledge of dust and the

dust business. In addition, his satisfaction with the things that make him comfortable and his

freedom from the need to impress others with his possessions show his similar satisfaction with

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himself. But we see him most pleased with himself at the end of the novel when he reveals his

innocent pride in his performance as ―a reg-lar brown bear‖ ( OMF 755). We are told, ―. . . It

then appeared, not only that in that burst of sarcastic eloquence [referring to his ―grandest

demonstration‖ before Bella of his cruelty and miserliness] Mr. Boffin was considered by his

two fellow-conspirators to have outdone himself, but that in his own opinion it was a remarkable

achievement‖ ( OMF 756). In fact, he says, ―. . . to tell you the whole truth and nothing but the

truth, I‘m rather proud of it. My dear, the old lady thinks so high of me that she couldn‘t abear to

see and hear me coming out as a reg‘lar brown one. Couldn‘t abear to make-believe as I meant

it!‖ ( OMF 756). Boffin is proud of his performance, but his pride comes not from the praise he

receives from his co-conspirators, or from Bella. His pride comes only from the ingenuous

amusement the whole experience has given him; his pride, like his innocence, is pure and

childlike—that is, simply amour de soi.

Compassion in Boffin often takes the form of generosity, as it does with Pickwick, shown

even to those who least deserve it. On the first night of Wegg‘s employment, Boffin shows this

generosity toward him, allowing him to dine on a meat pie visible in Boffin‘s exposed larder

before beginning reading. And in the final meeting the two have, after Wegg‘s plot has been

exposed, Boffin tells him, ―. . . I shouldn‘t like to leave you, after all said and done, worse off in

life than I found you. Therefore say in a word before we part, what it‘ll cost to set you up in

another stall‖ ( OMF 768). Wegg, instead of showing gratitude and humility and taking Boffin‘s

offer of a reasonable amount, tries to shake Boffin down for as much as he can get. Here

Boffin‘s generosity ends, at least where Wegg is concerned, and the final offer is only two

pounds.

In a similar relationship with the Lammles, Boffin exhibits much more generosity than is

warranted by their actions. In order to curtail their manipulative posturing with him and Mrs.

Boffin, he gives them one hundred pounds and expects an end to their relationship. The

Lammles, of course, are not happy with this settlement, being in dire financial straits, but realize

that Boffin‘s generosity will go no further where they are concerned. When Georgiana Podsnap

appears and offers the Lammles her only cash, an heirloom necklace, and part of her imminent

inheritance, Boffin takes possession of the money and the necklace in order to return them to

their rightful owner, showing compassion for the naïve girl who gave them to the parasitic

Lammles.

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Boffin also exhibits his compassion in other ways, as in his concern that Wegg will be

hurt by his hiring of Rokesmith as his secretary. He says, ―. . .I am bound to bear in mind that I

took Wegg on, at a time when I had no thought of being fashionable or of leaving the Bower. To

let him feel himself anyways slighted now, would be to be guilty of a meanness, and to act like

having one‘s head turned by the halls of dazzling light‖ ( OMF 183-84). In order to avoid

slighting Wegg, Boffin allows him to make the Bower his place of residence, again displaying

his generosity.

It almost goes without saying that Boffin shows compassion toward John Harmon, both

toward his memory when he thinks he is deceased, and toward the man himself when his identity

is revealed. But Boffin‘s compassion, while present, pales in comparison to that shown by Mrs.

Boffin.

The final natural quality of Noddy Boffin is his reliance on inner standards to guide his

behavior. A passage in the ninth chapter of the novel sets up the reader‘s expectations for this

characteristic:

These two ignorant and unpolished people had guided themselves so far on their

journey of life, by a religious sense of duty and desire to do right. Ten thousand weak-

nesses and absurdities might have been detected in the breasts of both; ten thousand

vanities additional, possibly, in the breast of the woman. But the hard wrathful and

sordid nature that had wrung as much work out of them as could be got in their best days,

for as little money as could be paid to hurry on their worst, had never been so warped but

that it knew their moral straightness and respected it. In its own despite, in a constant

conflict with itself and them, it had done so. And this is the eternal law. For Evil often

stops short at itself and dies with the doer of it! But Good, never. ( OMF 105)

Despite the questions of some critics, the characters of the novel never question Boffin‘s moral

rectitude, because he lives the part of his life to which we are privy following his inner standards

of goodness, even when the evidence suggests otherwise.

Along with his behavioral standard of ―straightness‖ is Boffin‘s disregard for Society. As

has been established previously, he has no concern for living according to the expectations of the

class of which he is now a part. Boffin is absolutely his own man, and a natural one by

Rousseau‘s definition.

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Similarities among the characters of Dickens‘s novels become obvious and

unquestionable when these characters are measured by the traits of Rousseau‘s natural man.

More importantly, however, we can see through this analysis that from the beginning to the end

of Dickens‘s career, he propounds his belief in the presence of natural goodness in the world.

While a number of critics embrace the view that the second half of his novels, roughly speaking,

are philosophically pessimistic, the natural characters not only exist, but they also survive their

challenges and find a greater happiness than they had previously enjoyed. And more often than

not, intentionally or not, they act as agents of redemption for other characters with which they

are associated. Despite the presence and significance of these natural characters, Rousseau‘s

―civilized‖ characters also appear in abundance, and a similar analysis is necessary in order to

determine their importance in the novels of Dickens.

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CHAPTER 4

DICKENS‘S CIVILIZED MAN

Brother Charles Cheeryble in Nicholas Nickleby , stating a view that might be Dickens‘s

own, declares:

―Natural affections and instincts, my dear sir, are the most beautiful of the Almighty‘s

works, but like other beautiful works of His, they must be reared and fostered, or it is as

natural that they should be wholly obscured, and that new feelings should usurp their

place, as it is that the sweetest productions of the earth, left untended, should be choked

with weeds and briars.‖ ( NN 564)

While Dickens rarely spoke directly in such terms about the corruption of humanity by the

―weeds and briars‖ of society, or ―civilization‖ as Rousseau termed it, he portrays it over and

over in his fiction. Unfortunately, the evidence all around him was entirely too clear; he presents

not his personal opinions, but the facts of the nineteenth-century English world.

As Chapter 3 shows, Dickens believed in the natural goodness of humankind, but, as

Valerie Kennedy says, ―‗natural humanity‘ is a rare commodity‖ (217) in his literary corpus. To

be sure, the ratio of natural characters to civilized characters is greatly imbalanced; civilized

men, when measured by Rousseau‘s standards, overwhelmingly outnumber the natural ones. In

fact, almost every character has some traits of the civilized man; the majority of characters fall

onto the negative, civilized, end of the aforementioned continuum. A number of critics point to

this fact as evidence that Dickens either espoused Hobbes‘s philosophy of humankind‘s natural

aggression, as does Magnet, or that he became more and more pessimistic as his career

progressed. For instance, Grahame Smith claims that ―Dickens came more and more to view his

society as a muddle of greed, selfishness, snobbery, and bungling inefficiency‖ (147). However,

other evidence suggests that civilization itself creates human aggression, and that Dickens

presents the same flaws in this corrupted society throughout his career, from Pickwick Papers

onward. Also little change develops in the natural-to-civilized ratio over his career span.

According to Palmer, Dickens was a believer in William Godwin‘s Theory of Necessity,

which asserted that ―The ultimate act resulted completely from the determination that was its

precursor . . . All the acts, except the first, were necessary, and followed each other, as inevitably

as the links of a chain do, when the first link is drawn forward‖ (qtd. in Palmer 32). We might

expand Godwin‘s meaning to suggest that, therefore, a person‘s behavior is to a degree a result

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of the nurture that he or she has received, although there are definite exceptions to this rule, for

instance, Oliver, Kate Nickleby, and Joe Gargery. The natural goodness with which a person is

born may be ―obscured‖ and ―choked‖ by the various forces around him, as Brother Charles

suggests, and as a number of Dickens‘s ―civilized‖ characters indicate, those to whose early

influences we are privy. The presence of evil, malicious people in the Dickens world, therefore,

does not suggest that he believed humans are naturally depraved. Instead it shows the opposite,

as James E. Marlow implies: ―To Dickens, when men behaved like cannibals, the cause was

neither fate nor the nature that was in them, but rather the nature that had been taken out of

them‖ (qtd. in Kennedy 217).

Like Rousseau, Dickens advocates preservation of the natural traits that are present in

children (again, with exceptions), as we see in his scathing criticism of English educational

practices in Nicholas Nickleby and Hard Times . Unfortunately, however, much in his society,

and therefore much in his fiction, makes this preservation impossible. Also like Rousseau,

Dickens detested the institutions created by the process of civilization that compounded the

problems they were supposed to correct. Marcus notes that Dickens shows ―early animosity to

the idea of institutions themselves, and to the idea that society needed them for its survival‖ (89),

pointing to Dickens‘s presentation of the Poor Law and its components in Oliver Twist . As

quoted previously, Stone refers to the ―hindrance from higher authorities‖ (250) that Dickens

often decries. And in discussing the ―obsession with thwarted or threatened innocence in

nineteenth-century England,‖ Peter Ackroyd points to ―the number of child prostitutes in the

streets, and of child labourers in the mines and factories‖ as ―a terrible indictment of Victorian

‗civilization,‘ which seemed to have been built upon the shuddering backs of oppressed

innocents‖ ( Life and Times 64), an indictment with which Dickens ardently agreed. In a letter to

Forster dated 31 July 1841, he writes of buying copies of A Narrative of the Experience and

Sufferings of William Dodd, a Factory Cripple, written by Himself , and of being ―much affected‖

by this biography of a man who had worked in factories from the age of five and was crippled

when he was fifteen ( Letters II.346). Dickens writes to Forster, ―I wish we were all in Eden

again—for the sake of these toiling creatures‖ ( Letters II.346). His statement indicates a belief

that there was, once upon a time, an ―Eden‖ without institutions that corrupted and often ruined

the lives of men and women. It does not, however, suggest that he believed that this Eden could

actually be recovered, at least not on a societal level.

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Rousseau and Dickens, then, both believe that institutions of civilization, whether the

formal ones like the Poor Laws or Chancery or the education system, or the informal ones such

as the emphasis on success and status, are corruptive not only of society itself but also of the

majority of human beings who live within it. If a person is not resilient like the natural

characters we have discussed, or if he does not live beyond the reaches of ―civilized‖ society, he

will most likely be negatively affected by that society. As Rousseau posits and Dickens

illustrates, the negative effects result in the individual‘s development of a number of identifiable

traits in the ―civilized man,‖ traits the converse of those of the natural man.

As we saw in Chapter 2, Rousseau‘s civilized man only becomes so when he joins with

other men (and women) in tribes, clans, or communities. As long as the natural man stays alone,

or with his own mate, no impetus for pride, competition, masks, or any other of the

characteristics develops. That being the case, the civilized man is only found in society,

ultimately in the city, according to Rousseau‘s theory. Dickens believed similarly. Each

example of the civilized man within his novels lives in close proximity to others, even though

some of them (e.g., Ralph Nickleby and Scrooge) do their best to remain sequestered from the

rest of humankind. We also see the effects of this propinquity in Dickens‘s mob scenes in

Pickwick Papers , Barnaby Rudge , and A Tale of Two Cities . Magnet claims that the mobs

behave as they do because of their innate Hobbesian aggression; however, a member of a mob

will usually only display violent, uncontrolled, barbaric behavior as part of the mob, rarely if

ever when he is alone. Mobs can only exist within society, and what many would term ―savage‖

and thus ―natural‖ is actually, according to Rousseau, civilized.

Instead of natural amour de soi, Rousseau‘s civilized man exhibits amour propre , or base

pride. In Rousseau, pride is a natural result of human proximity, as it arises from one‘s

comparing oneself to others; from this comparison arises the desire, the determination, to be or at

least appear to be better than others. This determination then gives rise to competition, whether

that is economic, social, or individual. Dickens observed and condemned this characteristic on

his first trip to America. He wrote to Forster on 3 May 1842, ―I‘ll tell you what the two

obstacles to the passing of an international copyright law with England, are: firstly, the national

love of ‗doing‘ a man in any bargain or matter of business; secondly the national vanity‖ ( Letters

II.231). While Dickens was angered over the copyright issue and pointed his finger here at the

Americans, he portrays these characteristics over and over. Amour propre appears in the novels

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in much the same form that he actually witnessed, as resolve to best an enemy or a competitor, as

we see with Ralph Nickleby‘s dogged efforts to ruin Nicholas, Monks‘ attempts to corrupt

Oliver, and Uriah Heep‘s determination to get revenge on David and all who keep him ―umble.‖

It also appears in endeavors to prove oneself higher on the social ladder than someone else, as

with Miss Knag, the Pecksniff daughters, and Mrs. Wilfer, or to use one‘s social position to

abuse or take advantage of someone else, as do the Wititterleys, Sir Mulberry Hawk, Scrooge,

Mrs. Steerforth and her son, Miss Havisham and Estella.

Contrary to the natural man‘s reliance on inner evaluative standards, civilized men and

women must have the validation of others to feel their own self worth; their self image is often

determined by the response they receive from others. For instance, David Copperfield feels

young and immature when he begins his association with Spenlow and Jorkins, ―on account of

the clerks poking one another with their pens to point [him] out‖ ( DC 301). Likewise, young Pip

feels unpolished and inferior because of the response he receives from Estella. As a result of one

or both of these aspects of pride, inordinate ambition and drive to better oneself, at least in the

eyes of society, also appear.

As a reaction to feelings of inferiority or general unworthiness arising from any number

of sources, the civilized man often wears masks to prove himself better than he perceives himself

to be, or better than he thinks others consider him. Rousseau found this pretension rampant in

Parisian society, and Dickens obviously found the same phenomenon in England. His characters

wear masks for a variety of reasons. While they might wear them for the same reason

Rousseau‘s acquaintances did, they also wear them in order to achieve other goals, such as Job

Trotter bursting into tears as a mask of shame and regret about his connection with Jingle, when

in reality he is a part of the scheme, Uriah Heep‘s wearing the mask of humility as a part of his

plot to gain ascendancy over his superiors, and Silas Wegg‘s pretending loyalty to Boffin to hide

his conspiracy for revenge. Barnard indicates that this use of masks occurs predominantly in

―upper-class life,‖ which naturally involves ―pretences and suppressions of self,‖ but that it also

can be found ―in connection with such false aspirants to gentility as Fanny Squeers and Miss

Knag, and later the Lammles and the Veneerings‖ (15). Of course, masks are also worn in

Dickens‘s ―pious frauds,‖ but as stated previously, because these are carried out for honorable

reasons, they do not condemn the wearer to the label of ―civilized.‖

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Civilized men and women often wear masks or display amour propre because they stand

to gain material wealth by doing so. While the natural man is satisfied with life‘s necessities, his

civilized counterpart is never satisfied; money and ―portable property‖ (as Wemmick calls them

in Great Expectations ) are the ultimate, insatiable, all-important goal of life. Again, this is one

of the criticisms Dickens had of Americans; in the same letter to Forster he writes, ―As to telling

them, they will have no literature of their own, the universal answer (out of Boston) is, ‗We don‘t

want one. Why should we pay for one when we can get it for nothing? Our people don‘t think

of poetry, sir. Dollars, banks, and cotton are our books, sir‘‖ ( Letters II.233). Ralph Nickleby

and Scrooge are the most obvious fictional examples of this voracious greed, but countless others

live within the pages of Dickens. House notes that ―there is hardly a story without at least one

character in whom the love of money is a master humour‖ (60). In discussing Our Mutual

Friend , Ackroyd might have been talking about any of the novels: ―. . . money, and the pursuit of

money, are the only imperatives. All the appurtenances of ‗society‘ are designed only to

camouflage greed and desire‖ ( Life and Times 193-94).

In the civilized man‘s efforts to amass material wealth, to appear better than others,

and/or to climb the social ladder, compassion finds no place. The civilized life is marked by, at

best, a lack of compassion, and, at worst and more often, overt cruelty. From Dodson and Fogg

in Pickwick Papers to Fascination Fledgeby in Our Mutual Friend , the civilized characters in

Dickens‘s novels often step carelessly on and over those who stand in the way of their goals.

Dodson and Fogg exhibit no compassion toward Pickwick, nor even Mrs. Bardell, as the two are

sentenced to the Fleet, not that they can be expected to do so. The pre-ghostly-visitation Scrooge

could not care any less for Bob Cratchit‘s desire to be with his family on Christmas, or for Bob‘s

disabled son. Ralph Nickleby seems almost absolutely heartless in his treatment of innocent

Kate, and Steerforth‘s betrayal of David, Mr. Peggotty, and Ham, and his subsequent cavalier

disposal of Little Emily are downright cruel. In all of these cases, as well as others, the

importance of the pursuit of wealth or the determination to assert one‘s own will and control over

others outweighs any care or compassion that might arise within the breast of the civilized man.

Finally, whereas the natural man is innocent—naïve about the world, and especially

about vice of any kind—the civilized man is worldly wise and willing to go to any lengths—even

criminal ones—to reach his goals. In Dickens, this again is found in varying degrees. Some can

and will play political and social games to gain status or wealth, such as Bumble the Beadle in

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Oliver Twist and Uncle Pumblechook in Great Expectations , but they commit no real crimes.

Some, like Steerforth, Pecksniff, and Estella, prey on the naiveté of others to make a transitory

conquest, or assert their power and position to gain control over others, such as Mulberry Hawk.

And then there are actual criminals, outside the bounds of law, including Fagin, Bill Sikes, and

Monks, Ralph Nickleby and Arthur Gride, Tigg Montague, Uriah Heep, and Fascination

Fledgeby. Regardless of the degree of ―vice‖ to which these characters go, they share a common

factor: their behavior always involves at least one victim.

In most cases, identifying the natural character or characters in each novel is rather

simple. As stated previously, relatively few of them grace the pages of Dickens. However,

choosing one civilized character out of a plethora is more difficult. Some of these characters are

so obviously bad that an examination of them seems almost trite. Nevertheless, the objective

here is not to prove these people wicked or evil, because some civilized people are not

necessarily so, but to show how they are civilized by showing their congruence with Rousseau‘s

catalog of characteristics.

In Pickwick Papers , Pickwick encounters a number of characters who introduce him to

the civilized world. Even the members of his own club, as well as Sam Weller, exhibit civilized

traits at times. But as the degree of civilization of these characters is fairly innocuous, we look

beyond them to find the characters who display the full array of civilized characteristics. We

might at first think of Dodson and Fogg, the shyster lawyers who represent Mrs. Bardell and who

send Pickwick to the Fleet. According to Ackroyd, however, Dickens often emphasizes ―one

particular trait: Pecksniff is remarkable for his hypocrisy, for example, and Scrooge for his

miserliness‖ ( Life and Times 57). Dodson and Fogg are ―remarkable‖ for their greed, their

willingness to twist the truth in order to make money, but Dickens does not present them in light

of the other characteristics. The character who provides a running thread throughout the novel

and who exhibits all of the civilized traits is Alfred Jingle.

Jingle displays two of the characteristics very prominently—his greed and his use of

masks to further his avaricious purposes. We see our first hints of his greed in the first encounter

Pickwick has with him in Chapter II. Wearing a mask of benevolence, he rescues Pickwick from

an angry mob, invites the club members for drinks, and then rushes off to catch his coach, saying

―. . . leave you to pay for the brandy and water,—‖ ( PP 14). When Pickwick and his friends join

Jingle on the coach, he presents himself as a well-to-do man of the world. Carrying only a

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brown paper package with ―most suspicious indications of containing one shirt and a

handkerchief,‖ he claims, ―—other luggage gone by water, —packing cases, nailed up—big as

houses—heavy, heavy, damned heavy‖ ( PP 14). In the course of conversation he makes several

dubious claims: that he has written a ten-thousand-line epic poem, that he fought in the French

Revolution of 1830 (though, as Dickens himself notes, it is only 1827 when he makes this

claim), that he was once married to a Spanish beauty who died after having her stomach

pumped—all to illustrate, as he says, ―strange life mine—rather curious history—not

extraordinary, but singular‖ ( PP 18). While this statement is probably true, the strangeness,

curiousness, and singularness of his life is most likely not due to the reasons he cites.

The next instance of Jingle‘s combining pretension with his desire for money, or to be

more exact in this case, to receive benefits without paying for them, comes immediately after the

dinner, and extremely abundant wine, shared with the Pickwickians after the coach ride. Joining

Tracy Tupman in his desire to attend the charity ball being held in the hotel but not having

appropriate clothing, Jingle borrows Winkle‘s dress suit with Tupman‘s help and without

Winkle‘s knowledge. The two attend the ball together, with a flip of Jingle‘s coin determining

that Tupman will pay for tickets, but Jingle advises Tupman not to give his name to the door

man: ―No names at all . . . Names won‘t do—not known—very good names in their way, but not

great ones—capital names for a small party, but won‘t make an impression in public

assemblies— incog. the thing—Gentlemen from London—distinguished foreigners—anything‖

( PP 24). It is only later that the reader learns why Jingle wants to remain incognito. His

behavior at the ball—that is, wooing an elderly widow with ―lots of money‖ away from the

―pompous Doctor‖ Slammer ( PP 26)—is subsequently blamed on Winkle, whose suit he is

wearing. Jingle disappears long enough to miss the consequences of his actions, not

surprisingly, since to be present would mean his exposure. When he finally is confronted, he is

identified as a ―strolling actor‖ ( PP 51) against whom the doctor is advised not to take action.

Neither the doctor, his military regiment, nor the Pickwickians yet know how true this

description is.

Jingle‘s next performance is at the Dingley Dell vs. All-Muggleton cricket match. His

claims of having played cricket ―thousands of times‖ in the West Indies ( PP 105), in addition to

his friendship with Pickwick, gains him an invitation into the Wardle home. Whereas his earlier

exploits turn out to be relatively harmless, here we begin to see his true character. Seeing a

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spinster aunt, Rachael Wardle, who stands to inherit significant money, Jingle dons a mask to

win her hand, even though he knows that she and Tupman have a budding relationship. As part

of his spurious role, he discredits Tupman before her, telling her that he is guilty of ―heartless

avarice‖ ( PP 122) and says outright, ―Tupman only wants your money‖ ( PP 122). He tells her

this with regret, he says, because Tupman is his friend (another false statement). Jingle also

plants a seed of jealousy in her mind, telling her that Tupman actually has his eye on her niece

Emily. Of course, none of this is true, but Rachael believes him, accepts his offer of marriage,

and elopes with him, oblivious to the fact that it is he who ―only wants [her] money‖ ( PP 122).

We see a clear indication of his greed when he demands one hundred twenty pounds from

Wardle in return for deserting her.

After his jilting of Rachael Wardle in Chapter X, Jingle appears in his next guise in

Chapter XV at the fancy-dress breakfast of Mrs. Leo Hunter in Eatanswill. Among prolific

―ingenious posturing‖ ( PP 222) by the costumed guests, Jingle takes his place as Mr. Charles

Fitz-Marshall, in the dress of a naval officer and dubbed ―a gentleman of fortune‖ ( PP 228) by

Mrs. Hunter. His attendance is short-lived, however, when she introduces him to Mr. Pickwick.

Nevertheless, this role continues in the location where he is now staying, Bury St. Edmunds.

Pickwick and Sam Weller follow him but do not find him there, though Sam does meet his

cohort, Job Trotter, for the first time. Job is quite the strolling actor himself, and even in the

absence of his ―master‖ but assuredly with his concurrence, he draws Pickwick into a situation

involving an ―immense rich heiress, from boarding-school‖ ( PP 235) to which Jingle is

supposedly to be married. Again, this is a ruse, and Pickwick finds himself on the losing end of

Jingle and Job Trotter‘s ―artful dodge‖ ( PP 250).

The final mask that Jingle wears is again that of Captain Fitz-Marshall, this time in the

town of Ipswich, to which Pickwick and Sam follow him after leaving Bury St. Edmunds. Here

he has endeared himself to the daughter and wife of the town magistrate:

Charmed with his long list of aristocratic acquaintance, his extensive travel, and his

fashionable demeanour, Mrs. Nupkins and Miss Nupkins had exhibited Captain Fitz-

Marshall, and quoted Captain Fitz-Marshall, and hurled Captain Fitz-Marshall at the

devoted heads of their select circle of acquaintance, until their bosom friends, Mrs.

Porkenham and the Miss Porkenhams, and Mr. Sidney Porkenham, were ready to burst

with jealousy and despair. ( PP 377-78)

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This all ends quickly for the Nupkinses when Pickwick tells them that Jingle is ―An unprincipled

adventurer—a dishonourable character—a man who preys upon society, and makes easily-

deceived people his dupes, Sir; his absurd, his foolish, his wretched dupes, Sir‖ ( PP 377). Upon

their composite confrontation of Jingle and Trotter, Jingle once again exhibits his arrogant, cool

demeanour, with no hint of contrition. Richard Russo posits that the Nupkins women are even

partly to blame because of their ―social jockeying,‖ which ―makes possible the kind of villainy

perpetrated by Alfred Jingle, whose understanding that his victims would rather let him get away

with his villainy than admit to having been duped grants him a kind of impunity‖ (xiv). Jingle

leaves Ipswich, prophetically telling Pickwick, ―See you again some day—keep up your spirits—

now, Job—trot!‖ ( PP 389). Knowing what we now know about Jingle, we can surmise that he

expects to continue to torment Pickwick, but that is not to be. From here we lose sight of these

―rogues and imposters‖ ( PP 387) until Chapter XLII, when Pickwick finds them in the Fleet.

If Jingle ―wears identities like changes of (other people‘s) clothes‖ (Russo xviii), and if

he often does this for monetary gain, these are not his only civilized characteristics. Involved in

almost all of the scams that he runs is a marked lack of compassion for his victims. Most notable

are the cases involving the women he purposes to marry. First, his desertion of Rachael Wardle

in exchange for ―pecuniary consideration‖ ( PP 377) causes ―lamentations‖ and a ―heart-rending

scene‖ of such proportions that the narrator decides ―not [to] wring the public bosom, with the

delineation of such suffering!‖ ( PP 151). Prior to this scene, Jingle has shown not only a lack of

compassion toward Tupman, but a derisive scorn for the victim of his betrayal by shouting,

―Love to Tuppy ‖ ( PP 135) as his chaise drives away. The duplicity he plays upon the Nupkinses

is similarly without compassion or remorse; however, the reader is hard-pressed to feel sympathy

for Mrs. And Miss Nupkins who worry most about what their friends will think of them.

Nevertheless, Jingle‘s behavior certainly lacks the slightest tinge of sympathy. He enters the

room wherein are the Nupkinses and Pickwick with ―a smile on his face, wholly unmoved by his

very unpleasant situation‖ ( PP 387). He knows that pride will keep the magistrate from holding

him: ―Wouldn‘t do—no go—caught a captain, eh?—ha! ha! Very good—husband for

daughter—biter bit—make it public—not for worlds—look stupid—very!‖ ( PP 388). He and

Job share a laugh over the discomfiture of the Nupkinses and another over Pickwick‘s anger,

then depart smiling.

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As a true civilized man, Jingle commits actions that, were they not foiled, would be

considered criminal. His plan to marry Rachael Wardle is obviously a plot to steal her

inheritance; his commission of identity theft in the case of Winkle and his assumption of a false

identity as a naval officer would certainly be punishable by law. However, Jingle is too cunning

to get caught; he always leaves himself a path of escape. Knowing that Wardle will pay him to

leave Rachael, and knowing that the Nupkinses are too proud to expose him, he is able to slip

through the fingers of the criminal justice system, until, that is, he is imprisoned for debt.

Finally, Jingle‘s amour propre is evident in his pervasive desire to dupe, deceive, and

defraud numerous people during the course of the novel. He moves from target to target,

attempting and often succeeding in gaining the upper hand by wearing various masks. While he

does often stand to gain money from his schemes, we must wonder whether his primary goal is

to make fools out of other people, to prove himself smarter and slyer than everyone else. The

evidence supports this theory, because while he does sometimes receive money for his trouble,

sometimes he does not, as in the case of the boarding-house heiress and his deception of

Pickwick and Sam.

One civilized characteristic is questionable regarding Jingle: dependence on the opinions

of others for one‘s self image. Even this may be connected to his duplicity. Jingle seems to be

most satisfied when he has convinced his victims of his status, his vast experience, or, most

importantly, his sincerity. While the opinions of others in regard to Jingle are based on a

specious façade, he measures his own self worth by his ability to convince them of its truth. He

is always successful. Not until he is a prisoner in the Fleet is he forced to dispense with the

façade and present—as well as face—his true self.

If when analyzing Dickens‘s novels for civilized men and women we automatically look

to the most wicked character, in Oliver Twist, we would face a dilemma. This novel contains

three such characters, men who are unquestionably evil—Fagin, Bill Sikes, and Edward Leeford,

otherwise known as Monks. Marcus equates Fagin with the devil, saying that he ―flourishes in

darkness and dissimulation,‖ that he is described as ―the serpent, the tempter, and the corruptor,‖

and that ―his principal commission in the novel is to attempt to demoralize and corrupt Oliver‖

(75-76). Sikes seems to have no human emotion at all, with the exception of the anger upon

which he so often acts; his uncontrolled anger leads him first to beat, then murder, Nancy.

Monks‘ face is marked with a red scar; he chews his lips until they are disfigured; and he has

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violent fits that cause him to bite his own hands—all, according to Marcus, ―unfailing signs of

inner corruption‖ (85). Surely we would find that one, if not all three of these, would qualify as

civilized men, and they all do. Interestingly enough, however, there is another character who by

the end of the novel‘s second chapter has displayed all but one of the civilized characteristics,

and by the end of the third, has exhibited the full array—Bumble the Beadle. Given the fact that

Bumble so prominently and so quickly appears as a civilized man, we could easily come to the

conclusion that Dickens created him as a satirical prototype, or perhaps an allegorical figure who

represents not one, but all of the civilized characteristics.

In the reader‘s first glimpse of Bumble, his amour propre is quite evident. He arrives to

tell Mrs. Mann that Oliver, now nine years old, is to go back to the workhouse from the baby

farm. He exerts the strength of his position over Mrs. Mann: ―Do you think this respectful or

proper conduct, Mrs. Mann . . . to keep the parish officers a-waiting at your garden-gate, when

they come here upon porochial business connected with the porochial orphans? Are you aweer,

Mrs. Mann, that you are, as I may say, a porochial delegate, and a stipendiary?‖ ( OT 5).

Asserting his superiority over Mrs. Mann in a declamatory manner, he is satisfied. According to

the narrator, ―Mr. Bumble had a great idea of his oratorical powers and his importance. He had

displayed the one, and vindicated the other. He relaxed‖ ( OT 6). When Mrs. Mann compliments

him upon his ingenious method of naming the orphans by calling him ―quite a literary character‖

( OT 7), he, ―evidently gratified,‖ proudly responds, ―Well, well . . . perhaps I may be. Perhaps I

may be, Mrs. Mann‖ ( OT 7). Mrs. Mann has obviously learned that the best way to conduct

business with Bumble is to pander to his ego.

Bumble portrays amour propre in several instances by the same assertion, or celebration,

of his authority or his superior social standing. For instance, he sternly rebukes Noah Claypole

for kissing Charlotte, when he has just been doing the same with Mrs. Corney. He says, ―The sin

and wickedness of the lower orders in this porochial district is frightful! If parliament don‘t take

their abominable courses under consideration, this country‘s ruined, and the character of the

peasantry gone for ever!‖ ( OT 178). Further along, he attempts to regain position and authority

in a public-house after his wife has humiliated him before the workhouse women; a stranger to

him at this point, Monks, fails to return his greeting: ―Mr. Bumble had quite dignity enough for

two. . . so he drank his gin-and-water in silence, and read the paper with great show of pomp and

circumstance‖ ( OT 244). When the two men do start a conversation, the stranger asks him about

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his current position: ―‗Master of the workhouse,‘ rejoined Mr. Bumble, slowly and impressively,

to check any undue familiarity the stranger might otherwise assume. ‗Master of the workhouse,

young man!‘‖ ( OT 245). In a subsequent conversation, Bumble declares that he ―only [wants] a

little rousing‖ ( OT 252) to physically protect Mrs. Bumble from Monks, and the narrator

comments:

As Mr. Bumble spoke, he made a melancholy feint of grasping his lantern with

fierce determination; and plainly showed, by the alarmed expression of every feature, that

he did want a little rousing, and not a little, prior to making any warlike demonstration;

unless, indeed, against paupers, or other person or persons trained down for the purpose.

( OT 252)

As prideful as Mr. Bumble is, he realizes that his position is dependent on those beneath him on

the social scale, and that they are the only ones to whom he is superior. For these reasons he

feels empowered to assert his authority over them, not however over the higher-ups or the

stronger members of society.

Bumble also displays his amour propre in his ambition. Telling Mrs. Corney that the

former master of the workhouse is at the point of death, he says, ―He is the master of this

establishment; his death will cause a wacancy; that wacancy must be filled up. Oh, Mrs. Corney,

what a prospect this opens!‖ ( OT 175). On his way home from this visit, he ―[pauses], for a few

minutes, in the male paupers‘ ward, to abuse them a little, with the view of satisfying himself

that he could fill the office of workhouse-master with needful acerbity. Assured of his

qualifications, Mr. Bumble left the building with a light heart, and bright visions of his future

promotion . . .‖ ( OT 176-77).

Finally, Bumble shows amour propre by his very demeanour. Escorting Oliver to his

apprenticeship at Sowerberry‘s, he ―carried his head very erect, as a beadle always should‖ ( OT

23). Later walking to the baby farm to see Mrs. Mann, he is pictured thus:

Mr. Bumble emerged at early morning from the workhouse-gate, and walked with

portly carriage and commanding steps, up the High-street. He was in the full bloom and

pride of beadlehood; his cocked hat and coat were dazzling in the morning sun; he

clutched his cane with the vigorous tenacity of health and power. Mr. Bumble always

carried his head high; but this morning it was higher than usual. There was an abstraction

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in his eye, an elevation in his air, which might have warned an observant stranger that

thoughts were passing in the beadle‘s mind too great for utterance. ( OT 106-107)

Even in the love scene with Mrs. Corney he displays ―a kind of amorous dignity which [makes]

him doubly impressive‖ ( OT 149); he slips his arm around her ―in a slow and dignified manner‖

( OT 150), and in her absence, cases her house for valuables ―with a stately walk‖ ( OT 173). In

only one instance (before Mrs. Corney humiliates him, that is) does his behavior deviate from

this dignity. When Noah arrives at Bumble‘s lodging to tell him that Oliver has ―turned

wicious‖ ( OT 39), Bumble is so

alarmed . . . that he [rushes] into the yard without his cocked hat,—which is a very

curious and remarkable circumstance: as showing that even a beadle, acted upon by a

sudden and powerful impulse, may be afflicted with a momentary visitation of loss of

self-possession, and forgetfulness of personal dignity. ( OT 39)

This lapse, however, is only fleeting, and with his hat firmly in its proper place, Bumble regains

and exhibits his heartfelt amour propre .

As shown by the importance of his hat, Bumble‘s clothing is a concomitant part of his

demeanor, and an indication of his love for luxurious material things. His ―gold-laced cuff[s]‖

( OT 8), the gilt-edged lappel [ sic ] of his official coat‖ with the ―large brass buttons‖ ironically

cut with a ―die . . . the same as the porochial seal—the Good Samaritan healing the sick and

bruised man‖ ( OT 21), hats both cocked and round, and ―a blue great-coat with a cape to it‖ ( OT

110) all portray a very important characteristic of this man who works with the poor and

destitute. Again ironically, when he is promoted to be master of the workhouse, he loses the fine

clothes of beadledom and learns, ―Dignity, and even holiness too, sometimes, are more questions

of coat and waistcoat than some people imagine‖ ( OT 239). Not only do his clothes reveal his

desire for luxury, but also his actual physical appearance. Described as ―fat‖ ( OT 5) and

―corpulent‖ ( OT 29), we need little proof that Bumble enjoys eating, but we see him at one

particular time enjoying a fine meal of ―steaks, oyster-sauce, and porter,‖ followed by a dessert

of ―sundry moral reflections on the too-prevalent sin of discontent and complaining‖ ( OT 110)

directed at the two paupers he has just transported to London.

Bumble also shows actual greed in addition to his love of luxuries. In reporting to Mr.

Brownlow about his knowledge of Oliver, he earns five guineas, but when Mr. Brownlow tells

him that he would have given him ―treble the money, if it had been favourable to the boy‖ ( OT

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112), we learn that Bumble would have presented a different account had he known he had more

to gain by doing so. His reasons for marrying Mrs. Corney are strictly mercenary; in her absence

from home, he counts her teaspoons, weighs and evaluates the silver items, and inventories her

furniture. He searches through her belongings until he finds ―a small padlocked box, which,

being shaken, gave forth a pleasant sound, as of the chinking of coin‖ ( OT 173); this is the

deciding factor, and he plans from this moment to propose to her, strictly in order to gain her

material goods. Later when he runs into the stranger who is Monks, he sees ―that an opportunity

[is] opened, for the lucrative disposal of some secret in the possession of his better half‖ ( OT

247), the secret disclosed to Mrs. Corney by old Sally on her deathbed. This chance meeting

with Monks leads to a dangerous encounter between him, Bumble, and Mrs. Bumble, but the

Bumbles come away from the encounter with twenty-five pounds for their trouble and her secret.

Both of them are willing to put themselves in danger for monetary gain, but Bumble himself is

the more fearful of the two.

Bumble‘s fearfulness in these circumstances reveals the man behind the mask that he

usually wears. The reader has been told that Bumble has

a decided propensity for bullying; [derives] no inconsiderable pleasure from the exercise

of petty cruelty; and, consequently, [is] (it is needless to say) a coward. This is by no

means a disparagement to his character; for many official personages, who are held in

high respect and admiration, are the victims of similar infirmities. ( OT 242)

As previously mentioned, Bumble finds no difficulty in exerting his power over those who are

weak already. However, when he is faced with a stronger opponent, any bravado he shows is

merely pretense, as we see in his last encounter with Monks. We also see a clear example of the

mask and the reality when, after his marriage, he visits the part of the workhouse where his wife

is matron. Feeling the weight of reality—that is, his wife‘s dominance over him—he

―[summons] up all his native dignity‖ and demands of the women, ―What do you mean by this

noise, you hussies?‖ ( OT 243). We see the contrast in the narrator‘s description of what happens

next: ―With these words, Mr. Bumble opened the door, and walked in with a very fierce and

angry manner: which was at once exchanged for a most humiliated and cowering air, as his eyes

unexpectedly rested on the form of his lady wife‖ ( OT 243). Only when faced with an opponent

weaker than he is does Bumble wear the mask of boldness and bluster.

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Bumble wears a mask on any occasion where he stands to benefit from doing so. For

instance, when he takes Oliver before the magistrate to be apprenticed, he wears a mask of

kindness, calling Oliver ―my dear,‖ while at the same time he ―[puts] on a grim and threatening

look, and [adds], in a low voice, ‗Mind what I told you, you young rascal!‘‖ ( OT 17). He wears

a mask of amorous feeling in his courting of Mrs. Corney, behind which is a pecuniary desire to

obtain her material goods. And he wears a mask of righteous indignation at finding Noah and

Charlotte kissing, immediately after he has been doing the same with Mrs. Corney. As a beadle,

Bumble wears a mask of dignity and distinction, when the man behind it is, to use his own

words, ―a ass‖ ( OT 149).

Another indicator that Bumble is not as self-assured as he would have others believe is

the extent to which he is affected by the response of others to him. As long as others defer to

him and fear him, his delusion of grandeur is intact; if, however, they respond otherwise, he is

completely undone. The following conversation with Oliver, locked in a closet at Sowerberry‘s,

illustrates this point:

―Oliver!‖

―Come; you let me out!‖ replied Oliver, from the inside.

―Do you know this here voice, Oliver?‖ said Mr. Bumble.

―Yes,‖ replied Oliver.

―Ain‘t you afraid of it, sir? Ain‘t you a-trembling while I speak, sir?‖ said Mr.

Bumble.

―No!‖ replied Oliver, boldly.

An answer so different from the one he had expected to elicit, and was in the habit

of receiving, staggered Mr. Bumble not a little. He stepped back from the keyhole; drew

himself up to his full height; and looked from one to another of the three by-standers, in

mute astonishment. ( OT 40)

The other prominent example of Bumble‘s reliance on the response of others for his own self

image is found in the workhouse scene mentioned previously. When he visits the women‘s

section of which his wife is matron, her threatening treatment of him and his cowed response

result in ―excruciating feelings‖ for Bumble, not so much because of her treatment, but because

of ―the two old paupers, who were tittering together most rapturously‖ ( OT 243). His further

response continues:

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What could Mr. Bumble do? He looked dejectedly round, and slunk away; and,

as he reached the door, the tittering of the paupers broke into a shrill chuckle of

irrepressible delight. It wanted but this. He was degraded in their eyes; he had lost caste

and station before the very paupers; he had fallen from all the height and pomp of

beadleship, to the lowest depth of the most snubbed hen-peckery. ( OT 243)

Bumble is made so miserable by these events that he must box the ears of a boy who opens the

gate for him, in order to re-assert his sense of power and authority; this, however, has little effect

on his deflated ego.

Even if Bumble is not the evil criminal that Bill Sikes, Monks, or Fagin is, he does

display behavior indicative of moral corruption. He is persuaded, early on, to set aside his

dignity and join Mrs. Mann in a ―leetle drop‖ of ―Daffy‖ (otherwise gin and water) ( OT 6) during

working hours. Similarly, he gives Mrs. Corney a bottle of the port ―that the board ordered for

the infirmary,‖ cautioning her, ―These are official secrets, ma‘am; not to be spoken of; except, as

I may say, among the porochial officers, such as ourselves‖ ( OT 148). But the port is not the

only secret Bumble is responsible for sharing; by his arrangement, Mrs. Bumble tells Monks old

Sally‘s account of Oliver‘s mother‘s dying words and actions—a revelation that would never go

unpunished in today‘s world of privacy laws. Nor does it go unpunished in the novel; although

the Bumbles deny any association with Monks, two witnesses are provided who can give

evidence against them. With ineffective attempts to put all the blame on his wife, Bumble must

face the loss of his ―porochial office‖ ( OT 354) for his injudicious actions.

Perhaps the most deplorable sign of Bumble‘s moral corruption is his lack of compassion.

Bumble‘s self concern leaves no room for humane feeling toward the paupers for whom he is

responsible. He responds to Oliver‘s tears by tapping him on the head with his cane and

charging him with naughtiness and ungratefulness. He reacts to little Dick‘s failure to get well

by saying, ―He‘s a ill-conditioned, wicious, bad-disposed porochial child that‖ ( OT 108), and by

ignoring Dick‘s wasted and feeble physical condition. In taking the two paupers to London, he

grumbles about ―the perverse behaviour of the two paupers, who [persist] in shivering, and

complaining of the cold, in a manner which, Mr. Bumble [declares], [causes] his teeth to chatter

in his head, and [makes] him feel quite uncomfortable; although he [has] a great-coat on‖ ( OT

110). He calls another pauper ―obstinate‖ ( OT 148) for actually dying in the streets after

receiving food he has no way of preparing from the workhouse overseer; his ―great principle of

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out-of-door relief‖ such as this is ―to give the paupers exactly what they don‘t want; and then

they get tired of coming‖ ( OT 148). And though he feigns and claims natural compassion when

he sees Oliver for the last time, the reader knows he is simply wearing a mask: ―Isn‘t natur,

natur, Mrs. Bumble!. . . Can‘t I be supposed to feel— I as brought him up porochially—when I

see him a-setting here among ladies and gentlemen of the very affablest description! I always

loved that boy as if he‘d been my—my—my own grandfather‖ ( OT 353). The only person who

actually brings out Bumble‘s compassion is himself.

In a novel in which the primary social issues under attack are the Poor Law, the

workhouse system, and the associated abuses of justice, we cannot be surprised that a character

such as Bumble receives Dickens‘s greatest satirical thrust. He so clearly displays all of the

characteristics of Rousseau‘s civilized man that he is almost a caricature. But in this type of

hyperbolic characterization, we get the most vivid illustration of the reasons both Dickens and

Rousseau objected so strongly to the institutions of their day.

The same might be said of Wackford Squeers in Nicholas Nickleby . As headmaster of

Dotheboys School, Squeers represents the Yorkshire boarding schools of Dickens‘s day, the

target here of his satire. Indeed, Squeers is a civilized man, wearing masks, valuing material

wealth over human relationships, and lacking any form of compassion, as well as displaying all

the other characteristics. However, while Squeers is a highly-qualified candidate, another

character in the novel is even more fully civilized than he—Ralph Nickleby. Ralph is a usurer, a

person whose love of, desire for, and illegal dealings with money make impossible any feelings

of compassion. But Ralph is also an uncle and a brother-in-law, positions that should invoke his

better spirit. Instead they incite his pride ( amour propre ) and his desire to evoke fear and to

humiliate and subjugate his relatives. Because Ralph‘s qualities are illustrated over and over

within the novel, we can have no doubt of his location on the natural/civilized continuum.

According to Trevor Blount, ―Avarice effectively shrinks the [personality] of Ralph

Nickleby‖ (19). Certainly it is one of his defining characteristics. Early in the novel, we are told

of the main difference between Ralph and his brother, the father of Nicholas and Kate:

These two brothers . . . had often heard, from their mother‘s lips, long accounts of

their father‘s sufferings in his days of poverty, and of their deceased uncle‘s importance

in his days of affluence, which recitals produced a very different impression on the two:

for while the younger, who was of a timid and retiring disposition, gleaned from thence

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nothing but forewarnings to shun the great world and attach himself to the quiet routine

of country life; Ralph, the elder, deduced from the often-repeated tale the two great

morals that riches are the only true source of happiness and power, and that it is lawful

and just to compass their acquisition by all means short of felony. ( NN 18-19)

Ralph begins the practice of usury while still a schoolboy and developed his skill and his

business throughout his youth. In his young adulthood, he becomes so absorbed in the ―pursuit

of money-getting‖ ( NN 20) that he loses contact with his brother, Nicholas, to a large degree by

choice, because he fears ―that if they were intimate he would want to borrow money of him‖ ( NN

20). This is the beginning of Ralph‘s total self-absorption; while he must be in community in

order to lend money and make money, he has no interests beyond himself and remains, as much

as possible, separated from the rest of humankind.

Ralph‘s sister-in-law, nephew, and niece learn quickly that Ralph is not going to be

helpful to them when old Nicholas dies and leaves them destitute. Mrs. Nickleby and Kate cling

to hope that he will lend them aid, but other characters know him too well to expect such

generosity. Newman Noggs, for instance, says, ―I don‘t believe he ever had an appetite . . .

except for pounds, shillings, and pence, and with them he‘s as greedy as a wolf‖ ( NN 576). But

the extent to which he is willing to go to satisfy his greed is the most deplorable aspect of it. Sir

Mulberry Hawk charges, ―You would sell your flesh and blood for money; yourself, if you have

not already made a bargain with the devil‖ ( NN 238), referring to Ralph‘s plot to make money

off of placing Kate in the clutches of Lord Verisopht and Hawk. Later, we are told, he

reconsiders his actions:

―‗I wish,‘ thought Ralph, ‗I had never done this. And yet it will keep this boy to

me, while there is money to be made. Selling a girl—throwing her in the way of

temptation, and insult, and coarse speech. Nearly two thousand pounds profit from him

already though. Pshaw! Match-making mothers do the same thing every day.‘‖ ( NN

329)

As usual, his avaricious intention wins out over his better nature.

In Chapter 44 another of Ralph‘s guiding passions is named, though the reader has seen

evidence of it long before this point: ―Stern, unyielding, dogged, and impenetrable, Ralph cared

for nothing in life, or beyond it, save the gratification of two passions: avarice, the first and

predominant appetite of his nature, and hatred, the second‖ ( NN 536). His avarice is clear from

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the opening chapters, but the reason for his hatred is not revealed until Chapter 60. Here we

learn that Ralph, once married, had refused to make his marriage public; to do so would have

meant that his wife would lose her inheritance. For seven years ―he [lives] in London and

[clings] to his business‖ while ―she [remains] alone in a dull country house‖ ( NN 738), awaiting

the death of her brother who controls the property she is to inherit. Before this death occurs,

however, she gives up on Ralph and runs away with another man. Even more unfortunate, the

son of Ralph and his wife, hidden from birth and unacknowledged by Ralph to avoid arousing

suspicion, later ends up at Dotheboys School to be abused and neglected when Ralph has been

told he died. As the informant Brooker tells the Cheerybles, ―He might have been disappointed

in some intention he had formed, or he might have had some natural affection, but he was

grieved at that . . .‖ ( NN 739). It seems that this grief at the supposed death of his son is the last

vestige of positive human feeling Ralph has, and afterwards, hatred takes over.

When hatred is a predominant passion, compassion is impossible. Upon Mrs. Nickleby‘s

assertion that the death of her husband ―was no common loss‖ ( NN 36), Ralph responds, ―It was

no un common loss, ma‘am . . . Husbands die every day, ma‘am, and wives too‖ ( NN 36).

Escorting a gratefully emotional Kate to her first job, he tells her, ―Don‘t begin to cry . . . I hate

crying‖ ( NN 128), and the narrator tells us that Ralph‘s heart ―lay rusting in its cell, beating only

as a piece of cunning mechanism, and yielding no one throb of hope, or fear, or love, or care, for

any living thing‖ ( NN 128). On occasion we may catch glimpses of a kinder, gentler man, but he

never allows these emotions to win out over his general misanthropy. For instance, on the night

he brings Kate to his house to entertain Hawk and Verisopht, the narrator reveals:

Ralph would have walked into any poverty-stricken debtor‘s house, and pointed

him out to a bailiff, though in attendance upon a young child‘s deathbed, without the

smallest concern, because it would have been a matter quite in the ordinary course of

business, and the man would have been an offender against his only code of morality.

But here was a young girl, who had done no wrong but that of coming into the world

alive; who had patiently yielded to all his wishes; who had tried so hard to please him—

above all, who didn‘t owe him money—and he felt awkward and nervous. ( NN 239)

At the conclusion of this episode, we are allowed to see that Ralph once was natural, and that

civilization has ―warped, hardened, drained, chilled‖ him (Hardy, Writer and His Work 39):

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As the door of the vehicle was roughly closed, a comb fell from Kate‘s hair, close

at her uncle‘s feet; and as he picked it up and returned it into her hand, the light from a

neighbouring lamp shone upon her face. The lock of hair that had escaped and curled

loosely over her brow, the traces of tears yet scarcely dry, the flushed cheek, the look of

sorrow, all fired some dormant train of recollection in the old man‘s breast; and the face

of his dead brother seemed present before him, with the very look it wore on some

occasion of boyish grief, of which every minute circumstance flashed upon his mind,

with the distinctness of a scene of yesterday.

Ralph Nickleby, who was proof against all appeals of blood and kindred—who

was steeled against every tale of sorrow and distress—staggered while he looked, and

reeled back into his house, as a man who had seen a spirit from some world beyond the

grave. ( NN 240)

Despite these glimmers of hope that Ralph will let compassion triumph, he never does. He

continues to allow his rakish business associates to torment Kate, and he himself continues to

torment Nicholas.

Ralph‘s persecution of Nicholas is a result of his own amour propre . Hardy attributes his

immediate dislike of Nicholas to ―reawakened sexual jealousy‖ ( Writer and His Work 40), but

whatever the reason, Ralph engages in a competitive struggle with his nephew, determined to

―break [his] haughty spirit‖ ( NN 562). He derides Nicholas‘s ―pride, obstinacy, reputation for

fine feeling‖ and says, ―These must be brought down, sir, lowered, crushed . . .‖ ( NN 562). The

defeat of Nicholas becomes a near-obsession for Ralph; he is willing to use any means necessary,

even enlisting the help of Squeers to gain the upper hand and reaffirm his own pride. He

conspires with Squeers to ―wound him through his own affections or fancies,‖ to ―strike him

through this boy‖ ( NN 420), that is, through Smike. This attempt being a failure, he again works

with the schoolmaster, this time to foil Nicholas‘s plan to marry Madeline Bray. After their

plans are made, Ralph‘s thoughts are revealed:

―Now!‖ he muttered, doggedly. ―Come what come may, for the present I am firm

and unshaken. Let me but retrieve this one small portion of my loss and disgrace. Let

me but defeat him in this one hope, dear to his heart as I know it must be. Let me but do

this, and it shall be the first link in such a chain, which I will find about him, as never

man forged yet.‖ ( NN 700)

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Along with his thoughts, Ralph reveals, once again, his pride, his amour propre .

As a man who constantly looks out for his own interests, Ralph on occasion wears a mask

to further his cause, although the mask is rarely an effective disguise. We are told:

He wore a sprinkling of powder upon his head, as if to make himself look benevolent; but

if that were his purpose, he would perhaps have done better to powder his countenance

also, for there was something in its very wrinkles, and in his cold restless eye, which

seemed to tell of cunning that would announce itself in spite of him. ( NN 23)

Although his acquaintances know Ralph well enough to see past the mask, they are all witnesses

to his pretentious façade at one time or another. For instance, he wears ―feigned reluctance‖ ( NN

324) when he reveals the location of Kate‘s residence to Lord Verisopht; he ―hastily [puts] away

a padlocked cash-box that [is] on the table, and [substitutes] in its stead an empty purse‖ ( NN

354) when Kate visits him in his office; he exhibits ―profound humility and respect‖ when

visiting Hawk after Nicholas has injured him, covering up ―the impress of a sarcastic smile,‖

―making as though he were irresistibly impelled to express astonishment, but was determined not

to do so,‖ and displaying ―well-acted confusion‖ ( NN 466). In making calls on his clients, he

wears an assortment of masks:

His face was a talisman to the porters and servants of his more dashing clients, and

procured him ready admission, though he trudged on foot, and others, who were denied,

rattled to the door in carriages. Here he was all softness and cringing civility; his step so

light, that it scarcely produced a sound upon the thick carpets; his voice so soft, that it

was not audible beyond the person to whom it was addressed. But in the poorer

habitations Ralph was another man; his boots creaked upon the passage floor as he

walked boldly in, his voice was harsh and loud as he demanded the money that was

overdue; his threats were coarse and angry. With another class of customers, Ralph was

again another man. These were attorneys of more than doubtful reputation, who helped

him to new business, or raised fresh profits upon old. With them Ralph was familiar and

jocose—humorous upon the topics of the day, and especially pleasant upon bankruptcies

and pecuniary difficulties that made good for trade. In short, it would have been difficult

to have recognised the same man under these various aspects, but for the bulky leather

case full of bills and notes which he drew from his pocket at every house, and the

constant repetition of the same complaint, . . . that the world thought him rich, and that

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perhaps he might be if he had his own; but there was no getting money in when it was

once out, either principal or interest, and it was a hard matter to live—even to live from

day to day. ( NN 538-39)

Ralph‘s mask of an impoverished existence is merely another sign of his lack of compassion.

As his association with the ―attorneys of more than doubtful reputation‖ ( NN 539)

indicates, Ralph‘s business often, if not always, borders on the illegal, even if his early intention

was to amass riches ―by all means short of felony‖ ( NN 18-19). He is involved by Chapter 2 in

the manipulation of market shares in the ―United Metropolitan Improved Hot Muffin and

Crumpet Baking and Punctual Delivery Company‖ ( NN 25), and by the end of the novel his

shady dealings on many fronts—his conspiracy with Gride and Bray, the plot hatched with

Squeers regarding Smike, including kidnap, and his self-admitted ―dissimulation and treachery‖

practiced on a daily basis—come crashing down around him.

The final characteristic of the civilized man is the development of self image based on the

opinions of others. According to Magnet, ―Ralph perceives that allowing the opinions of others

to affect his sense of his own being would greatly qualify his authenticity, and thus his choosing

to be a villain . . . explicitly signals his rejection of the judgments and interests of others‖ (25-

26). This may be true; Ralph says,

―I know the world, and the world knows me. . . You could tell it nothing that would

surprise it—unless, indeed, it redounded to my credit or honour, and then it would scout

you for a liar. And yet I don‘t find business slack, or clients scrupulous. Quite the

contrary. I am reviled or threatened every day by one man or another . . . but things roll

on just the same, and I don‘t grow poorer either.‖ ( NN 543)

Even as he denies the effect of others‘ opinions on himself, there is evidence that this is not

wholly true. Earlier, he reveals ―unprofitable reflections‖ that demonstrate another side of his

psyche:

―‗When my brother was such as he,‘ said Ralph, ‗the first comparisons were

drawn between us—always in my disfavour. He was open, liberal, gallant, gay; I a crafty

hunk of cold and stagnant blood, with no passion but the love of saving, and no spirit

beyond a thirst for gain. I recollected it well when I first saw this whipster; but I

remember it better now . . .

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‗Recollections like these,‘ pursued Ralph, with a bitter smile, ‗flock upon me—

when I resign myself to them—in crowds, and from countless quarters. As a portion of

the world affect to despise the power of money, I must try and show them what it is.‘‖

( NN 421)

This revelation of Ralph‘s thoughts perhaps divulges more insecurity, more resentment of the

comparisons that were made between him and his brother, and more dependence on the world‘s

opinion than Ralph would admit to. Like many civilized characters, Ralph depends on his ability

to force his will on others and to evoke fear and deference to provide him with a sense of his own

self worth, though he denies this dependence.

With Martin Chuzzlewit , we encounter the same issue as with Oliver Twist —an

abundance of civilized characters, some of whom display behavior so monstrous that we cannot

merely label them civilized, but must also condemn them as criminals. In this case, a choice

from among Seth Pecksniff, Jonas Chuzzlewit, and Tigg Montague/Montague Tigg would

merely be arbitrary. A selection from among three equally heinous characters, however, is

unnecessary if we focus our attention on the chapters of the novel that take place in the United

States. Contrary to some critics who claim that the American chapters contain Dickens‘s

presentation of natural man in a less than flattering light and, therefore, reveal his rejection of

Rousseau‘s philosophy, analysis of the Americans according to actual natural/civilized

characteristics proves that they are clearly corrupted and thus civilized. This fact refutes the

theory that Dickens‘s criticism and satire in these chapters at least in part target Rousseau and

direct it wholly where he intended—toward the Americans.

We must first note that, contrary to claims that United States is a ―new‖ country at the

time of the novel‘s action, it has had a recognized identity for nearly two hundred years. Young

though it is in comparison to England and other European countries, it has developed cities and

numerous ―institutions,‖ a sure sign in Rousseau‘s works of civilization. Critics who point to the

naming of the ―Eden‖ settlement as a sign of its primeval nature are missing several points: First,

the entire premise and promise of the Eden Land Corporation is a sham; the name is merely a

sales tactic. Secondly, in the first description of the settlement, we are told that ―the waters of

the Deluge might have left it but a week before: so choked with slime and matted growth was the

hideous swamp which bore that name‖ ( MC 375). Schwarzbach notes this as another sign of the

―prehistoric nature‖ of the settlement (90); however, the allusion is to the biblical flood, an event

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occurring because of the effects of civilization on the people of Noah‘s day, undoubtedly after

the fall of humankind. Finally, Barnard points to imagery used in the description of Pecksniff‘s

village to show that it, too, is a ―corrupted [Eden], with the sin of selfishness the cause of the

Fall‖ (43); he explains, ―The word ‗serpent‘ clings to Pecksniff . . . The Eden imagery is frequent

enough to establish in our minds the idea of a stealthy insidious corruption: Eden implies the

serpent, and the Fall implies the sin of Cain; the idyllic village includes Pecksniff, and Pecksniff

shelters and encourages Jonas . . .‖ (43-44). The fallacy, then, is that the United States is actually

natural, and that natural is not desirable. Dickens actually presents the truth that the United

States is as civilized and as corrupted as England, and that the ―American vices of self-approval,

windbag oratory, mob idolatry, corruption and boot-licking‖ (Barnard 45) are found in England

as well, even if tobacco-spitting is not.

Schwarzbach observes a ―curious abstract uniformity that pervades the American

character and American culture . . . the people seem to have the same opinions, the same ideas,

or for that matter are perfectly interchangeable in almost every respect‖ (86-87). This

assessment is accurate. Thus, analysis will combine certain illustrious civilized American

characters, several of whom claim to be ―natural‖—but are not.

Whereas masks usually take the form of hypocrisy or pretense, the American version is

different. On first consideration, the reader might think that behavior such as that displayed by

Mrs. Hominy, or the Norrises discussing slavery, is surely posturing, but these characters and

others like them act as they believe themselves to be. Generally, Americans are unable to see

themselves other than as others see them; they have no authentic self knowledge, nor any real,

authentic self. According to Schwarzbach, ―Americans believe their own cant. For there is no

inner life for Americans to mask, and though this is in one sense more honest, as they are hiding

nothing, in another it is far more frightening, in that there is nothing to hide‖ (86). Thus, we

cannot accept Hannibal Chollop‘s claim that he, along with his fellow Americans, is ―the cream

Of human natur‘‖ ( MC 523). He wears this mask to fool himself, just as Mrs. Hominy‘s mask of

self-deception is the belief that she is the ―mother of the modern Gracchi‖ ( MC 540). For all

these mask-wearing Americans, ignorance of self really is bliss. Only Mr. Bevan seems to see

objectively; he says, ―I do not find and cannot believe, and therefore will not allow, that we are a

model of wisdom, and an example to the world, and the perfection of human reason, and a great

deal more to the same purpose, which you may hear any hour in the day‖ ( MC 279).

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In the aforementioned letter of Dickens to Forster, he points up ―national vanity‖ as one

of the most striking of American characteristics. Certainly Martin Chuzzlewit documents this

claim. Virtually every character displays inordinate pride in the United States— amour propre

focused on country. Such pride will not allow the bearer to acknowledge his or her own flaws;

to do so might place him or her lower than another on the social scale. Americans believe that

they are what they say they are. Thus, in order to convince others, they must continually

disparage England and praise the United States. Upon Martin‘s arrival, for instance, Colonel

Diver addresses him, ―You have brought, I see, sir . . . the usual amount of misery and poverty

and ignorance and crime, to be located in the bosom of the Great Republic. Well, sir! let ‘em

come on in ship-loads from the old country: when vessels are about to founder, the rats are said

to leave ‘em‖ ( MC 257). Similarly, General Choke asks Martin, ―How‘s the unnat‘ral old parent

by this time?‖ and follows with, ―How‘s she! Progressing back‘ards, I expect, as usual?‖ ( MC

345). General Fladdock also pontificates about the faults of England: ―The ex-clusiveness, the

pride, the form, the ceremony . . . The artificial barriers set up between man and man; the

division of the human race into court cards and plain cards, of every denomination—into clubs,

diamonds, spades, everything but hearts!‖ ( MC 290-91). Ironically, this speech comes

immediately before the general is stunned by the news that he is in company with a man, Martin,

who traveled in steerage on the voyage to America—a man obviously below the general‘s social

station and thus unfit for his company. Martin quickly learns, after several people have asked

him how he likes the United States, that he cannot give an honest answer: ―I have learned by

experience, that you take an unfair advantage of a stranger, when you ask that question. You

don‘t mean it to be answered, except in one way. Now, I don‘t choose to answer it in that way,

for I cannot honestly answer it in that way. And therefore, I would rather not answer it at all‖

( MC 532). Any time Martin does try to give a truthful answer, the answer is one such as General

Choke gives him when he declares that the Queen does not live in the Tower of London: ―. . . the

knowledge of Britishers themselves on such points is not to be compared with that possessed by

our intelligent and locomotive citizens‖ ( MC 346-47). In fact, according to the Americans, the

British, with respect to any detail, are inferior to them.

In addition to Americans being unreasonably proud of their country, individual amour

propre abounds. Our first glimpse of Colonel Diver signals his personal pride: ―This gentleman

wore a rather broad-brimmed hat for the greater wisdom of his appearance; and had his arms

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folded for the greater impressiveness of his attitude‖ ( MC 256). This description might suggest a

mask but for the fact that Diver believes he is wise and impressive. We are further told that he

looks ―like a man who [is] oppressed to inconvenience by a sense of his own greatness‖ ( MC

260). Members of the Norris family revel in their associations with all the great ―dukes, lords,

viscounts, marquesses, duchesses, knights, and baronets‖ of England ( MC 287), and then, while

claiming to be abolitionists, they agree that ―negroes [are] such a funny people, so excessively

ludicrous in their manners and appearance, that it [is] wholly impossible for those who [know]

them well, to associate any serious ideas with such a very absurd part of the creation‖ ( MC 288).

Mrs. Hominy enters the hall where Elijah Pogram is appearing, and

A lane [is] made; and Mrs. Hominy, with the aristocratic stalk, the pocket

handkerchief, the clasped hands, and the classical cap, came slowly up it, in a procession

of one. Mr. Pogram testified emotions of delight on seeing her . . .

Their first salutations were exchanged in a voice too low to reach the impatient

ears of the throng; but they soon became audible, for Mrs. Hominy felt her position, and

knew what was expected of her. ( MC 540)

These characters exhibit amour propre with demonstrations of their own importance or by

asserting what they consider their own superiority on the social scale, but often the Americans

voice pride in their fellow countrymen as well. The phrase ―one of the most remarkable men in

our country, sir!‖ ( MC 268) is applied to numerous Americans, and even Hannibal Chollop is

touted by Elijah Pogram as ―a model of a man, quite fresh from Natur‘s mould! . . . a true-born

child of this free hemisphere . . . a child of Natur‘, and a child of Freedom . . .‖ ( MC 533). Boast

as Pogram might about him, Chollop is in no way what Rousseau had in mind as the natural man.

Hannibal Chollop is actually a ―violent vagabond‖ ( MC 520). His intense brutality is one

of the major vices of the Americans, although Hannibal‘s brand is more violent than most. He

was much esteemed for his devotion to rational Liberty; for the better propagation

whereof he usually carried a brace of revolving-pistols in his coat-pocket, with seven

barrels apiece. He also carried, amongst other trinkets, a sword-stick, which he called his

―Tickler‖; and a great knife, which (for he was a man of a pleasant turn of humour) he

called ―Ripper,‖ in allusion to its usefulness as a means of ventilating the stomach of any

adversary in a close contest. ( MC 520)

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As disturbing as his violent behavior are his being distinguished in the eyes of his fellow

countrymen, his deeds being celebrated in all the newspapers. Perhaps we should note that

Dickens did expressly say in a letter to Andrew Bell, the author of Men and Things in America ,

that brutality and violence were not limited to America:

. . . remember how much brutality you may see (if you choose) in the common streets

and public places of London. I have often seen a boy, and more than once a Woman,

quite as roughly used as your Negro in the Oyster room and either you or I rising from

our desk and walking out, could find in the next street (always supposing that we were

bent on looking for him) the counterpart of your Yankee swaggerer. ( Letters II.402-03)

Importantly, he wrote this before actually coming to America (12 October 1841), and the

examples he cites from Bell‘s account, while deplorable, seem mild compared to the actions of

Dickens‘s American.

But Chollop is not the only unlawful character. Jefferson Brick and Colonel Diver tell

Martin about the sale of forged letters as a common practice and as a sign of ―smartness‖ ( MC

265). Major Pawkins, ―one of the most remarkable men‖ in America,

was a great politician; and the one article of his creed, in reference to all public

obligations involving the good faith and integrity of his country, was, ―run a moist pen

slick through everything, and start fresh.‖ This made him a patriot. In commercial

affairs he was a bold speculator. In plainer words he had a most distinguished genius for

swindling, and could start a bank, or negotiate a loan, or form a land-jobbing company

(entailing ruin, pestilence, and death, on hundreds of families), with any gifted creature in

the Union. . . But as a man‘s private prosperity does not always keep pace with his

patriotic devotion to public affairs; and as fraudulent transactions have their downs as

well as ups; the major was occasionally under a cloud. ( MC 268-69)

The American who has greatest effect on the action of the novel, however, is Zephaniah Scadder,

the agent who sells Martin his estate in Eden. Several of his sales ploys are shams: he has a city

map on the wall of the office misleading Martin (and undoubtedly others) to think that Eden

actually has been settled; he claims that the furniture in the office is made of Eden lumber; he

tries several times to talk Martin out of the deal so he can say, ―If it shouldn‘t happen to fit . . .

don‘t blame me‖ ( MC 358). And when Chollop finds Martin and Mark in Eden, he finds

pleasure in Scadder‘s having gotten the better of the British men: ―Chollop was so delighted at

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the smartness of his excellent countryman having been too much for the Britisher, and at the

Britisher‘s resenting it, that he could contain himself no longer, and broke forth in a shout of

delight‖ ( MC 522). Dickens‘s charge in the letter to Forster previously quoted—―the national

love of ‗doing‘ a man in any bargain or matter of business‖—is illustrated clearly by the actions

and accounts of these Americans. In these cases, the ―doing‖ involves immoral and illegal

dealings, and falls into Rousseau‘s equation of civilization and vice.

In a gathering of men at Pawkins‘s boarding house early during Martin‘s visit, the

Americans exhibit two forms of greed. The first is their inhalation of the dinner:

All the knives and forks were working away at a rate that was quite alarming; very few

words were spoken; and everybody seemed to eat his utmost in self-defence, as if a

famine were expected to set in before breakfast time to-morrow morning, and it had

become high time to assert the first law of nature [i.e., self preservation]. The poultry,

which may perhaps be considered to have formed the staple of the entertainment—for

there was a turkey at the top, a pair of ducks at the bottom, and two fowls in the middle—

disappeared as rapidly as if every bird had had the use of its wings, and had flown in

desperation down a human throat. The oysters, stewed and pickled, leaped from their

capacious reservoirs, and slid by scores into the mouths of the assembly. The sharpest

pickles vanished, whole cucumbers at once, like sugar-plums, and no man winked his

eye. Great heaps of indigestible matter melted away as ice before the sun. It was a

solemn and awful thing to see. Dyspeptic individuals bolted their food in wedges;

feeding, not themselves, but broods of nightmares . . . ( MC 271)

The Americans display gluttonous eating habits and a deficiency of manners more than once.

For Martin, dinner is only the first symptom of their greed. The men‘s conversation after this

dinner directly demonstrates their chief concern:

It was rather barren of interest, to say the truth; and the greater part of it may be

summed up in one word—dollars. All their cares, hopes, joys, affections, virtues, and

associations, seemed to be melted down into dollars. Whatever the chance contributions

that fell into the slow cauldron of their talk, they made the gruel thick and slab with

dollars. Men were weighed by their dollars, measures gauged by their dollars; life was

auctioneered, appraised, put up, and knocked down for its dollars. The next respectable

thing to dollars was any venture having their attainment for its end. The more of that

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worthless ballast, honor and fair-dealing, which any man cast overboard from the ship of

his Good Name and Good Intent, the more ample stowage-room he had for dollars.

Make commerce one huge lie and mighty theft. Deface the banner of the nation for an

idle rag; pollute it star by star; and cut out stripe by stripe as from the arm of a degraded

soldier. Do anything for dollars! What is a flag to them! ( MC 273-74)

These two passages clearly portray the intense money-grubbing and epicurean excesses of the

Americans. In such incidents, combined with the schemes of Scadder and others in the Eden

Land Corporation, Dickens‘s Americans clearly possess this typical characteristic of civilized

men—greed.

With themselves, their country, and their money at the forefront of their minds,

Americans have no time for compassion or for any of the worthier feelings of the human heart.

Throughout the American chapters of the novel, we find no mention of one character, other than

Mark, and eventually Martin, feeling sympathy for another, nor any mention of ―Institutions‖

focused on the needs of frailer members of society. If compassion is unknown in the more

―civilized‖ parts of society, then we certainly are not surprised by Hannibal Chollop‘s obvious

lack of it: he sits in Martin‘s cabin ―smoking away like a factory chimney‖ ( MC 520), despite

Martin‘s struggling with fever to the point of death. Nor are we shocked when he laughs and

makes jokes about Scadder‘s con game instead of sympathizing with the victims. Nor does

Captain Kedgick have any compassion when Martin returns from Eden, only being concerned

that Martin ―didn‘t ought to have received ‘em‖ at the ―le-vee‖ in his honor ( MC 536) if he did

not intend to stay at the settlement. The only sorrow the captain feels is that Martin and Mark

―had not both died in Eden‖ ( MC 537).

The final civilized characteristic is the external source or sources of a person‘s—and in

this case, a nation‘s—concept of self. That anyone in America cares about the opinion of an

outsider such as Martin is improbable. Any criticism he levels at the United States to an

American is brushed off as ignorance. The Americans build their concept of self worth by

listening to others like themselves, others who share the same views and opinions, others who

will declare them ―the most remarkable . . . in the country.‖ While many need no one else to

praise them because their self-concept is already so high, such compliments and behavior are

common features of their conversation. Or, as with Colonel Diver, they measure their self worth

by public opinion:

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It was clear that Colonel Diver, in the security of his strong position, and in his

perfect understanding of the public sentiment, cared very little what Martin or anybody

else thought about him. His high-spiced wares were made to sell, and they sold; and his

thousands of readers could as rationally charge their delight in filth upon him, as a glutton

can shift upon his cook the responsibility of his beastly excess. Nothing would have

delighted the colonel more than to be told that no such man as he could walk in high

success the streets of any other country in the world: for that would only have been a

logical assurance to him of the correct adaptation of his labours to the prevailing taste,

and of his being strictly and peculiarly a national feature of America. ( MC 266)

For the most part, they praise their contry, believing it is ―that enlightened land, where there [are]

no noblemen but nature‘s noblemen, and where all society [is] based on one broad level of

brotherly love and natural equality‖ ( MC 287-88). The Americans in Martin Chuzzlewit have

created their own self concept based on what they tell each other and themselves regarding their

country. Perhaps this seems more of an internal standard of evaluation, such as the natural man

exhibits; however, no evaluation occurs at all. Instead, a kind of national brainwashing seems to

have taken place, and as a result, the citizenry of the United States, as portrayed by Dickens, is

perfect in its self-portrait.

The many references to Nature and her noblemen, children, and other offspring in Martin

Chuzzlewit have prompted some critics to claim that Dickens was using Americans to illustrate

what he perceived to be false in Rousseau‘s philosophy. They are correct that Dickens illustrates

Rousseau‘s philosophy, but the Americans are not his natural men. The United States, by this

time civilized, did not spring ―fresh from Natur‘s mould‖ ( MC 533), as Elijah Pogram would

have us believe. In fact, even Colonel Diver admits that America has been influenced by

England. Speaking about forgery and other forms of ―smartness,‖ he asserts, ―Well! . . . then we

got it all from the old country, and the old country‘s to blame for it, and not the new ‘un‖ ( MC

266). The American concept of ―nature‖ is complete freedom—freedom to chew tobacco and

spit, freedom to gorge oneself on food, freedom to carry a variety of weapons and to use them if

necessary, or if merely desirable. Martin is appalled by American ―Institutions‖ (a part of

civilized society in Rousseau‘s philosophy) that include ―the Eden Land Corporation, with Mr.

Scadder at its head, and all the misery it has worked‖ ( MC 533). Pogram attributes Martin‘s

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anger to ―natural antipathy,‖ this ―hatred of our country, and her Institutions‖ that is ―deeply

rooted in the British mind‖ ( MC 533). Martin blasts Pogram:

―What an extraordinary people you are!‖ cried Martin. ―Are Mr. Chollop and the

class he represents, an Institution here? Are pistols with revolving barrels, sword-sticks,

bowie knives, and such things, Institutions on which you pride yourselves? Are bloody

duels, brutal combats, savage assaults, shootings down and stabbings in the streets, your

Institutions! Why, I shall hear next, that Dishonour and Fraud are among the Institutions

of the great republic!‖ ( MC 534)

The very development of institutions, especially the type institutions that both Rousseau and

Dickens deplored, is a sign of civilized society. But Martin gets personal while Pogram persists

in blaming the ―morbid hatred‖ ( MC 535) of the British:

―Upon my life!‖ cried Martin, in his turn. ―This is the most wonderful

community that ever existed. A man deliberately makes a hog of himself, and that’s an

Institution!‖

―We have no time to ac-quire forms, sir,‖ said Elijah Pogram.

―Acquire!‖ cried Martin. ―But it‘s not a question of acquiring anything. It‘s a

question of losing the natural politeness of a savage, and instinctive good breeding which

admonishes one man not to offend and disgust another. Don‘t you think that man over-

the-way, for instance, natural knows better, but considers it a very fine and independent

thing to be a brute in small matters?‖

―He is a na-tive of our country, and is nat‘rally bright and spry, of course,‖ said

Mr. Pogram. ( MC 535-56)

Martin continues, explaining the course that corruption and civilization have taken:

―Now, observe what this comes to, Mr. Pogram,‖ pursued Martin. ―The mass of

your countrymen begin by stubbornly neglecting little social observances, which have

nothing to do with gentility, custom, usage, government, or country, but are acts of

common, decent, natural, human politeness. You abet them in this, by resenting all

attacks upon their social offences as if they were a beautiful national feature. From

disregarding small obligations they come in regular course to disregard great ones; and so

refuse to pay their debts. What they may do, or what they may refuse to do next, I don‘t

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know; but any man may see if he will, that it will be something following in natural

succession, and a part of one great growth, which is rotten at the root.‖ ( MC 536)

Clearly, we suspect, even to Mr. Pogram, Martin has shown that American society bears no

resemblance to nature because of the emphasis on personal freedom—which in most cases

means freedom to be brutish.

The final indication that American society is not ―natural‖ and was not intended by

Dickens to be considered so, is Martin‘s farewell words to the United States as his ship sets sail

for England. He and Mark discuss how the American eagle should be represented. Mark says,

―I should want to draw it like a Bat, for its short-sightedness; like a Bantam, for its bragging; like

a Magpie, for its honesty; like a Peacock, for its vanity; like a Ostrich, for its putting its head in

the mud, and thinking nobody sees it—‖ ( MC 545). Martin adds, ―And like a Phoenix, for its

power of springing from the ashes of its faults and vices, and soaring up anew into the sky! . . .

Well, Mark. Let us hope so‖ ( MC 546). In these words, Martin and Dickens imply belief in and

hope for redemption and renewal—for America and for the individual.

Ebenezer Scrooge is one of the most thoroughly civilized characters in all of Dickens,

quite a literary feat given that A Christmas Carol is less than a hundred pages. Just as Bumble

in Oliver Twist comes across as near-caricature, Scrooge is nearly allegorical in his greed and

miserliness. Yet within the five staves of A Christmas Carol , he exhibits all characteristics of the

civilized man.

From page one of Stave One, Scrooge‘s defining characteristic—greed—is evident.

Even on the day of his business partner‘s funeral, we are told, he ―was not so dreadfully cut up

by the sad event, but that he was an excellent man of business . . . and solemnized it with an

undoubted bargain‖ ( CC 33). Lest the irony in this statement be misunderstood, Dickens follows

it with a clear description: ―Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, Scrooge! A

squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous old sinner!‖ ( CC 34), a man who

allows his clerk to freeze during working hours because of the cost of coal and who begrudges

the Christmas holiday because of the money he will lose. During the visitation of the Ghost of

Christmas Past, Scrooge relives the beginning of his greed and its initial costs. He sees himself

early in life beginning ―to wear the signs of care and avarice‖ ( CC 65); there is ―an eager,

greedy, restless motion in the eye, which [shows] the passion that has taken root . . .‖ ( CC 65).

The love of his life, Belle, tells him, ―I have seen your nobler aspirations fall off one by one,

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until the master-passion, Gain, engrosses you‖ ( CC 65), and knowing that he would regret

marrying a ―dowerless girl‖ ( CC 66), she breaks off their engagement. The Ghost of Christmas

Present similarly confronts Scrooge with his greed, this time through the eyes and words of the

Cratchits. Mrs. Cratchit denounces him as ―an odious, stingy, hard, unfeeling man‖ ( CC 83), and

the ghost rebukes him, saying, ―Oh God! To hear the Insect on the leaf pronouncing on the too

much life among his hungry brothers in the dust!‖ ( CC 82). Finally, the Ghost of Christmas Yet

to Come shows Scrooge the aftermath of his death, when rapacious scavengers steal his

possessions and sell them to a rag and refuse dealer. The charwoman justifies her actions,

asking, ―If he wanted to keep ‘em after he was dead, a wicked old screw . . . why wasn‘t he

natural in his lifetime?‖ ( CC 100).

The second most prominent sign of Scrooge‘s civilized condition is his lack of

compassion. He is ―hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous

fire; secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster . . . He carried his own low temperature

always about with him . . .‖ ( CC 34). When approached by the portly gentlemen on Christmas

Eve who ask if he would like to ―make some slight provision for the poor and destitute, who

suffer greatly at the present time,‖ he responds by asking a series of questions: ―Are there no

prisons? . . . And the Union workhouses? . . . Are they still in operation? . . . The Treadmill and

the Poor Law are in full vigour, then?‖ ( CC 38). His final answer shows the extent of his lack of

compassion: ―If they would rather die. . . they had better do it, and decrease the surplus

population‖ ( CC 39). The Ghost of Christmas Present repeats these words to Scrooge as they

look upon the Cratchit family and see the frail Tiny Tim, adding,

―Man . . . if man you be in heart, not adamant, forbear that wicked cant until you

have discovered What the surplus is, and Where it is. Will you decide what men shall

live, what men shall die? It may be, that in the sight of heaven, you are more worthless

and less fit to live than millions like this poor man‘s child.‖ ( CC 83)

While we have no evidence that Scrooge ever engages in illegal behavior, either in his business

or in his personal life, his resolve to withhold any kind of human compassion from his fellow

beings, even those who suffer, is corrupt and immoral, especially in one living in an era of

extraordinary need.

Even though Scrooge lives his life ―solitary as an oyster‖ ( CC 34), as a civilized man he

must be in community for his characteristics to be visible. Scrooge has separated himself from

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humankind by his single-minded focus on the attainment of money and by his refusal to show

kindness to those around him. In reality, however, his life and the achievement of his goal

depend on others. He cannot make money without other people. Moreover, his own amour

propre necessitates individuals to whom he can appear superior. For instance, he feels great

pride after sending the portly gentlemen on their way without his having made a donation:

―Seeing clearly that it would be useless to pursue their point, the gentlemen withdrew. Scrooge

resumed his labours with an improved opinion of himself, and in a more facetious temper than

was usual with him‖ ( CC 39). Implicit in this self-assessment and in a number of other instances

is Scrooge‘s reliance on the response of others to keep his amour propre and his sense of self

intact. The Ghost of Christmas Past shows Scrooge himself as a lonely schoolboy, ―a solitary

child, neglected by his friends‖ ( CC 57) and left by his father to spend Christmas at school while

the other boys spend the holiday at home. We see the seeds of Scrooge‘s dependence on the

opinions of others in Fan‘s words advising him that he can come home: ―Home, for good and all.

Home, for ever and ever. Father is so much kinder than he used to be that home‘s like Heaven!

He spoke so gently to me one dear night when I was going to bed, that I was not afraid to ask

him once more if you might come home; and he said Yes, you should . . .‖ ( CC 60). But by this

time he has begun to develop a protective shell that will guard him from the pain of rejection, a

defense that comes in handy when he is ―released‖ by Belle. From this point on, his behavior is

calculated to keep people at bay. We learn,

Nobody ever stopped him in the street to say, with gladsome looks, ―My dear

Scrooge, how are you? When will you come to see me?‖ No beggar implored him to

bestow a trifle, no children asked him what o‘clock it was, no man or woman ever once

in all his life inquired the way to such and such a place, of Scrooge. Even the blindmen‘s

dogs appeared to know him; and when they saw him coming on, would tug their owners

into doorways and up courts; and then would wag their tails as though they said, ―no eye

at all is better than an evil eye, dark master!‖

But what did Scrooge care? It was the very thing he liked. To edge his way

along the crowded paths of life, warning all human sympathy to keep its distance, was

what the knowing ones call ―nuts‖ to Scrooge. ( CC 34-35)

In his foray into the past, the Ghost reminds him of Belle‘s assessment. She tells Scrooge, ―You

fear the world too much . . . All your other hopes have merged into the hope of being beyond the

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chance of its sordid reproach‖ ( CC 65). Like many before and after him, Scrooge saw and sees

money as the way to build up his pride, and the response he receives from other people secures

his sense of self worth.

For most of the novel, Scrooge appears to be exactly what he seems on the surface—a

hardened, unfeeling, miserly misanthrope. But through the course of the ghostly visitations, we

are made aware that his outer appearance is a mask; it hides his true self from the reader but also

from himself. In order to make his reclamation possible, he must first acknowledge the painful

feelings he has denied, remember how he looked before he assumed the unfeeling persona, and

remove for good his protective mask. With the aid of the spirits, he is able to do all three—but

that is the subject of the next chapter.

In David Copperfield, the protagonist is no hardened, civilized man. David does display

some civilized characteristics, but he also displays natural ones. While he grows as a human

being during the course of the novel, he also simply matures. This novel is a bildungsroman , and

necessary in such stories is confrontation between the presumably natural protagonist and

civilized men and women representing the forces, perhaps institutions, of society. David meets a

number of these types—the Murdstones, Mr. Micawber, and Steerforth, to name the most

prominent—but the one in whom David believes he has met his match is Uriah Heep.

Heep is a master at masquerade. From his first appearance to the last, he wears a mask of

―umbleness,‖ one he learned to wear as a schoolboy:

―Father and me was both brought up at a foundation school for boys; and mother, she was

likewise brought up at a public, sort of charitable, establishment. They taught us all a

deal of umbleness—not much else that I know of, from morning to night. We was to be

umble to this person, and umble to that; and to pull off our caps here, and to make bows

there; and always to know our place, and abase ourselves before our betters! And we had

such a lot of betters! Father got the monitor-medal by being umble. So did I. Father got

made a sexton by being umble. He had the character, among the gentlefolks, of being

such a well-behaved man, that they were determined to bring him in. ‗Be umble, Uriah,‘

says father to me, ‗and you‘ll get on. It was what was always being dinned into you and

me at the school; it‘s what goes down best. Be umble,‘ says father, ‗and you‘ll do!‘ And

really it ain‘t done bad!‖ ( DC 490)

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Of course, Uriah does not admit to this conditioning until he has insinuated himself into the

business of Mr. Wickfield, because only then is he secure enough to hint that he resents his

humble station and has used it to his advantage.

Throughout the first of his association with David, Uriah pretends to be humble and self-

effacing. On one occasion David reports, ―He told me, when I shook hands with him, that he

was proud to be noticed by me, and that he really felt obliged to me for my condescension‖ ( DC

317). David, along with most other people, except Mrs. Heep, is repulsed by such shows of

subservience, mainly because they are often accompanied by undulating, writhing movements

that suggest those of a serpent. Agnes witnesses firsthand and relates to David the actions of

Uriah that have placed him in partnership with her father: ―Uriah . . . has made himself

indispensable to papa. He is subtle and watchful. He has mastered papa‘s weaknesses, fostered

them, and taken advantage of them, until—to say all that I mean in a word, Trotwood—until

papa is afraid of him‖ ( DC 315); she continues, ―His ascendancy over papa. . . is very great. He

professes humility and gratitude—with truth, perhaps: I hope so—but his position is really one of

power, and I fear he makes a hard use of his power‖ ( DC 315).

Heep‘s virtual takeover of Wickfield‘s business is not the only circumstance in which his

mask helps him achieve his objective. He gets revenge on Jack Maldon for ―ordering and

shoving [him] about‖ ( DC 519) whenever he comes into the office, by revealing to Dr. Strong,

Mr. Wickfield, and others what he presents as an illicit affair between Maldon and Mrs. Strong.

At the same time, he intimates that David was aware of the affair, that he and David had

discussed it, thus ―entrapping [David] into [his] schemes‖ ( DC 529). David remarks, ―As we

stood, front to front, I saw so plainly, in the stealthy exultation of his face, what I already so

plainly knew; I mean that he forced his confidence upon me, expressly to make me miserable,

and had set a deliberate trap for me in this very matter . . .‖ ( DC 529). But when Uriah sets his

sights on Agnes, David‘s anger knows no bounds. Uriah pretends to disclose his secret designs

as one young man confides to another, but the reality is that he knows he is goading David by

this revelation, and does so on purpose.

Finally confronted with his treachery, Heep finds his mask removed. David comments:

Though I had long known that his servility was false, and all his pretences

knavish and hollow, I had had no adequate conception of the extent of his hypocrisy,

until I now saw him with his mask off. The suddenness with which he dropped it, when

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he perceived that it was useless to him; the malice, insolence, and hatred, he revealed; the

leer with which he exulted, even at this moment, in the evil he had done—all this time

being desperate too, and at his wits‘ end for the means of getting the better of us—though

perfectly consistent with the experience I had of him, at first took even me by surprise,

who had known him so long and disliked him so heartily. ( DC 640)

The mask is off, the truth is out, and Uriah Heep is sentenced to transportation for life. However,

he is instead sent to prison where he becomes a ―Model Prisoner‖ ( DC 728), again donning the

mask of humility. He says, ―. . . it [the beef served for dinner] was tougher yesterday than I

could wish; but it‘s my duty to bear. I have committed follies, gentlemen . . . and I ought to bear

the consequences without repining‖ ( DC 929). But his most egregiously false statement follows:

―. . . I forgive you, Mr. Copperfield,‖ said Uriah . . . ―I forgive everybody. It

would ill become me to bear malice. I freely forgive you, and I hope you‘ll curb your

passions in future. I hope Mr. W. will repent, and Miss W., and all of that sinful lot.

You‘ve been visited with affliction, and I hope it may do you good; but you‘d better have

come here. Mr. W. had better have come here, and Miss W. too. The best wish I could

give you, Mr. Copperfield, and give all of you gentlemen, is, that you could be took up

and brought here. When I think of my past follies, and my present state, I am sure it

would be best for you. I pity all who ain‘t brought here!‖ ( DC 731-32)

All the while Heep is making these ostensibly good wishes, David notices his facial

expression—―a more villanous look I never saw,‖ he says, ―even on his visage‖ ( DC 731).

Heep‘s conditioning as a schoolboy leads to his seeking his concept of self in the

treatment he receives from others. Unfortunately, his portrayal of himself as ―umble‖ becomes a

self-fulfilling prophecy, and when he tries with every word in every encounter to assert his

humility, others, especially David, respond appropriately. As we have seen, Uriah uses this

reality to his own advantage. He tells David,

―When I was quite a young boy . . . I got to know what umbleness did, and I took to it. I

ate umble pie with an appetite. I stopped at the umble point of my learning, and says I,

‗Hold hard!‘ When you offered to teach me Latin, I knew better. ‗People like to be

above you,‘ says father, ‗keep yourself down.‘ I am very umble to the present moment,

Master Copperfield, but I‘ve got a little power!‖ ( DC 491)

127

At another point, when he has told David of his love for Agnes, he says, ―I know you have never

liked me, as I have liked you!‖ ( DC 490), but after his villainy is found out, he tells David,

―Copperfield, I have always hated you. You‘ve always been an upstart, and you‘ve always been

against me‖ ( DC 650). David responds, ―As I think I have told you once before . . . it is you who

have been, in your greed and cunning, against all the world‖ ( DC 650). Heep projects his anger

and his hatred onto David and anyone else to whom he feels inferior, and this projection, along

with his too-frequent protestations of humility, determines how others see him, as well as how he

sees himself.

In spite of his façade of humility, by the end of the novel we are convinced that Heep has

a healthy amount of amour propre . He drops hints of this pride throughout, for instance, when

he tells David, ―Ah! But you know we‘re so very umble . . . And having such a knowledge of our

own umbleness, we must really take care that we‘re not pushed to the wall by them as isn‘t

umble‖ ( DC 489). David, in Heep‘s eyes, ―isn‘t umble,‖ so his most precious goal is to bring

David down by whatever means. At the scene of confrontation for his crimes, he says, ―We

understand each other, you and me. There‘s no love between us. You were always a puppy with

a proud stomach, from your first coming here; and you envy me my rise, do you? None of your

plots against me; I‘ll counterplot you!‖ ( DC 639). He goes on to threaten David:

―You think it justifiable, do you, Copperfield, you who pride yourself so much on

your honor and all the rest of it, to sneak about my place, eavesdropping with my clerk?

If it had been me , I shouldn‘t have wondered; for I don‘t make myself out a gentleman

(though I never was in the streets either, as you were, according to Micawber), but being

you !—And you‘re not afraid of doing this, either? You don‘t think at all of what I shall

do, in return; or of getting yourself into trouble for conspiracy and so forth? Very well.‖

( DC 641)

In his final encounter with David in the prison, he tells him, before all of the delegation touring

the facility, ―You knew me when, in spite of my follies, I was umble among them that was

proud, and meek among them that was violent . . .‖ ( DC 731). Heep, however, is in no way truly

humble or meek; his pride and his drive to prove himself superior to David and anyone else who

stands in his way is evident despite his mask. Tommy Traddles summarizes the character and

objective of Uriah Heep:

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―I think you would find, Copperfield, if you had an opportunity of observing his course,

that money would never keep that man out of mischief. He is such an incarnate

hypocrite, that whatever object he pursues, he must pursue crookedly. It‘s his only

compensation for the outward restraints he puts upon himself. Always creeping along the

ground to some small end or other, he will always magnify every object in the way; and

consequently will hate and suspect everybody that comes, in the most innocent manner,

between him and it.‖ ( DC 667)

Heep‘s vice—his criminal takeover of Wickfield‘s business—arises from his greed for

both money and success. In Micawber‘s catalog of Heep‘s crimes and offenses, he includes

these:

―That Mr. W. has been for years deluded and plundered, in every conceivable manner, to

the pecuniary aggrandisement of the avaricious, false, and grasping—HEEP. . . That

these meshes; beginning with alarming and falsified accounts of the estate of which Mr.

W. is the receiver, at a period when Mr. W. had launched into imprudent and ill-judged

speculations, and may not have had the money, for which he was morally and legally

responsible, in hand; going on with pretended borrowings of money at enormous interest,

really coming from— HEEP—and by— HEEP—fraudulently obtained or withheld from

Mr. W. himself . . .‖ ( DC 647)

In the end when David visits the prison where Heep is incarcerated, one of the warders tells him

that Heep is there because he committed ―fraud, forgery, and conspiracy‖ on the Bank of

England. Although throughout the novel he is obviously greedy and determined to obtain money

by any means necessary, Traddles once again sees through his actions to Heep‘s actual

motivation: ―A most remarkable circumstance is, that I really don‘t think he grasped this sum

even so much for the gratification of his avarice, which was inordinate, as in the hatred he felt for

Copperfield. He said so to me plainly. He said he would even have spent half as much, to baulk

or injure Copperfield‖ ( DC 666). Greed, vice, and amour propre , then, inflame Heep and create

the ―civilized‖ monster with which David must do battle during a large portion of the novel.

Perhaps it seems too obvious to state that Heep exhibits the final characteristic of the

civilized man—a lack of compassion. Yet even with the predominance of other civilized traits,

Heep‘s deficiency of human feeling is striking. We are too familiar with his cruel (but masked)

persecution of David, Agnes, and Mr. Wickfield even before he is confronted with his crimes,

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but he displays this paucity at other times as well, for instance, when he presents evidence to Dr.

Strong that his wife is carrying on an affair with Jack Maldon. At one point David notes ―an

obtrusive show of compassionate zeal in his voice and manner‖ ( DC 524-25) but when Strong

moans in emotional agony David adds, ―The sound might have touched any heart, I thought, but

it had no effect upon Uriah‘s‖ ( DC 525). Uriah forges ahead with the revelation, incriminating

both David and Mr. Wickfield in the process. When he is faced with the knowledge that his

manipulation and criminal betrayal of Wickfield have been exposed, his lack of compassion

again is demonstrated. Along with Micawber‘s account of how Heep ―designedly perplexed and

complicated‖ ( DC 644) the business affairs in order to mislead Wickfield, and how ―the

weaknesses, the faults, the very virtues, the parental affections, and the sense of honor, of the

unhappy Mr. W. have been for years acted on by and warped to the base purposes of—HEEP‖

( DC 647 ), Heep himself reveals this lack when he explains the difficulties of the business: ―‗The

old ass has drunk himself into a state of dotage‘ said Uriah, turning uglier than before, ‗and it has

been got from him by fraud!‘‖ ( DC 640). Any lack of positive feeling exhibited toward David

might be excused, as David is an able opponent for Heep; however, the lack of compassion for

these two elderly gentlemen is deplorable, and it completes Heep‘s list of civilized

characteristics.

Philip ―Pip‖ Pirrip is one of the few Dickens characters to develop from a natural child

into a corrupted, civilized adult before the reader‘s eyes. Often Dickens‘s child characters are

resistant to the forces of corruption, for example, Oliver Twist and Little Nell. However, like A

Christmas Carol , Great Expectations is ultimately a story of redemption, and in order for a

character to be redeemed, he or she must first be, at least to some degree, civilized. Because Pip,

the adult, tells his story in retrospect, he is able to give the reader greater awareness and

understanding of the corruptive process that takes place within him. Hardy explains that Pip‘s

corruption ―is shown from the inside, in a confessional self-analysis in which he bares his secret

life and its causality . . . Pip is too clearly and completely aware of the social and emotional

forces that have made him what he is . . .‖ ( Writer and His Work 84-85).

Pip‘s corruption begins not with his encounter with the convict on the marshes, but on the

day he is brought to live and be ―brought up by hand‖ by Mrs. Joe. From this moment he

develops a self concept dependent on how others treat him. He admits,

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My sister‘s bringing up had made me sensitive. In the little world in which

children have their existence whosoever brings them up, there is nothing so finely

perceived and so finely felt, as injustice . . . Within myself, I had sustained, from my

babyhood, a perpetual conflict with injustice. I had known, from the time when I could

speak, that my sister, in her capricious and violent coercion, was unjust to me . . .

Through all my punishments, disgraces, fasts and vigils, and other penitential

performances, I had nursed this assurance; and to my communing so much with it, in a

solitary and unprotected way, I in great part refer the fact that I was morally timid and

very sensitive. ( GE 64)

Even the love he receives from Joe and the value Joe places on their friendship is not enough to

counteract his perpetually being ―treated as if [he] had insisted on being born, in opposition to

the dictates of reason, religion, and morality‖ ( GE 23). In his childhood home, Pip learns

quickly that he cannot earn his sister‘s approval, thus making Joe‘s even more important to him.

He fears telling Joe about his encounter with the convict because he is afraid Joe will ―think

[him] worse than [he is]‖ ( GE 42). By the time Pip leaves home to enter the world through Satis

House, he is well conditioned to determine his self worth by the response he receives from

others.

Even though on first impression Pip finds Estella ―proud‖ and ―very insulting‖ ( GE 62),

he is still deeply affected by her criticism. When she shows disdain for his ―coarse hands‖ and

―thick boots‖ ( GE 61), he tells the reader, ―I had never thought of being ashamed of my hands

before; but I began to consider them a very indifferent pair. Her contempt for me was so strong,

that it became infectious, and I caught it‖ ( GE 61). Soon thereafter, he says,

I took the opportunity of being alone in the court-yard, to look at my coarse hands

and my common boots. My opinion of those accessories was not favourable. They had

never troubled me before, but they troubled me now, as vulgar appendages. I determined

to ask Joe why he had ever taught me to call those picture-cards, Jacks, which ought to be

called knaves. I wished Joe had been rather more genteelly brought up, and then I should

have been so too. ( GE 63)

Leaving Miss Havisham and Estella, Pip reflects ―that [he is] much more ignorant than [he] had

considered [himself]‖ the night before, and ―generally that [he] was in a low-lived bad way‖ ( GE

66).

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Sadly, in Pip‘s development of dissatisfaction with himself, he also grows increasingly

ashamed of Joe, primarily because he sees Joe‘s natural roughness as a reflection on himself.

When Joe accompanies Pip to Satis House at the behest of Miss Havisham, Pip confesses, ―I am

afraid I was ashamed of the dear good fellow—I know I was ashamed of him—when I saw that

Estella stood at the back of Miss Havisham‘s chair, and that her eyes laughed mischievously‖

( GE 101). The life Joe represents and to which Pip is indentured after this visit is disgraceful to

Pip, and he fears Estella‘s seeing the reality of his apprenticeship:

What I dreaded was, that in some unlucky hour I, being at my grimiest and commonest,

should lift up my eyes and see Estella looking in at one of the wooden windows of the

forge. I was haunted by the fear that she would, sooner or later, find me out, with a black

face and hands, doing the coarsest part of my work, and would exult over me and despise

me. ( GE 107-108)

After Pip learns of his ―expectations‖ and goes to London, he is still embarrassed by Joe and the

life he represents. As he plans for Joe‘s visit to London, he admits his feelings regarding the

impending event, saying that he anticipates it ―with considerable disturbance, some

mortification, and a keen sense of incongruity,‖ and ―if [he] could [keep] him away by paying

money, [he] certainly [would] pay money‖ ( GE 218). He further explains that it is Bentley

Drummle he most wants to keep away from Joe because of the contempt Bentley inspires in him:

―So,‖ he says, ―throughout life, our worst weaknesses and meannesses are usually committed for

the sake of the people whom we most despise‖ ( GE 218). Looking back on his feelings, Pip

realizes that his concern for the response of others has caused him to reject the one who means

the most to him. A similar situation occurs when Pip learns that Magwitch is his benefactor. Pip

is appalled by this revelation, but his feelings are not completely clear to him until he sees his

―own feelings reflected in Herbert‘s face, and, not least among them, [his] repugnance towards

the man who [has] done so much for [him]‖ ( GE 338).

Although Pip continues to be concerned with others‘ opinion of him, by the time he lives

in London, he has developed amour propre , and thus his own prideful self image has taken a

more prominent position. Signs of his ambition and pride exist, however, before he reaches the

city. He expresses to Joe and Biddy his desire to be a scholar ( GE 46) and a gentleman ( GE 146)

when he is still a child. After meeting Estella, however, his ambitions all center upon her, and

his actual expectations of becoming a gentleman increase his hope of achieving them.

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But his pride also takes the form of his superiority over Joe, Biddy, and Magwitch, and

his competition to prove his superiority over Bentley Drummle. Upon learning of his impending

trip to London, Pip views the people of his village with sympathy and thinks, ―I promised myself

that I would do something for them one of these days, and formed a plan in outline for bestowing

a dinner of roast beef and plum-pudding, a pint of ale, and a gallon of condescension, upon

everybody in the village‖ ( GE 145). He expresses to Joe his desire ―to do something for [him],‖

but adds, for the reader‘s benefit, ―it would have been much more agreeable if he had been better

qualified for a rise in station‖ ( GE 146). When Joe visits him in London, Pip is highly

judgmental of ―his clumsy manner of coming up-stairs‖ ( GE 219), his difficulty in reading the

names on the doors, his ―breathing in at the keyhole‖ ( GE 219), and the incessant wiping of his

feet on the mat outside Pip‘s door. When Magwitch appears at Pip‘s flat to reveal his identity as

Pip‘s benefactor, Pip rebuffs his move to embrace him, saying,

―Stay! . . . Keep off! If you are grateful to me for what I did when I was a little

child, I hope you have shown your gratitude by mending your way of life. If you have

come here to thank me, it was not necessary. Still, however you have found me out, there

must be something good in the feeling that has brought you here, and I will not repulse

you; but surely you must understand that—I—‖ ( GE 314)

Pip later tells Miss Havisham and Estella, ―I have found out who my patron is. It is not a

fortunate discovery, and is not likely ever to enrich me in reputation, station, fortune, anything‖

( GE 357). Though Pip eventually reaches the point of gratitude toward Magwitch, here he is

concerned exclusively with the wounds he has sustained to his selfish pride as a result of this

disappointing revelation. Grahame Smith explains Pip‘s revulsion in this way: ―Pip fears

Magwitch as only the insecurely established parvenu can fear the criminal outcast. Despite his

veneer of culture and poise, his class position is so uncertain that it can be threatened by the

merest taint of the socially unacceptable‖ (178).

Pip exhibits amour propre in his vehement dislike of Bentley Drummle, due primarily to

the competition for Estella that Drummle presents. Pip grows jealous simply because he learns

that Drummle ―[is] actually the next heir but one to a baronetcy‖ ( GE 191 ) before he even is

aware of a connection with Estella. But when he learns that the two are acquainted, Pip says, ―I

cannot adequately express what pain it gave me to think that Estella should show any favour to a

contemptible, clumsy, sulky booby, so very far below the average‖ ( GE 307). He tries to

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convince Estella of Drummle‘s below-averageness by telling her that he is ―a deficient, ill-

tempered, lowering, stupid fellow‖ and by saying, ―You know he has nothing to recommend him

but money, and a ridiculous roll of addle-headed predecessors; now, don‘t you?‖ ( GE 308). His

words being completely ineffective, Pip is left with his pride severely damaged.

Unlike Scrooge, Ralph Nickleby, and many other civilized characters, Pip is not greedy

in the sense that his only interest is money; instead the appeal of money for Pip is limited to what

it can do for him. For Pip, money is merely the means to secure respectability, and with

respectability, Estella. But once he is in London and has access to his newly gained wealth, he

confesses, ―I soon contracted expensive habits, and began to spend an amount of money that

within a few short months I should have thought almost fabulous . . .‖ ( GE 203-204). Once he

has established himself in Barnard‘s Inn, he says, ―I had begun to be always decorating the

chambers in some quite unnecessary and inappropriate way or other, and very expensive those

wrestles with Barnard proved to be‖ ( GE 218). He later refers to his ―lavish habits‖ ( GE 271)

and the detrimental effect his squandering of money has on Herbert; he soon joins the Finches of

the Grove, a club whose members ―[spend] their money foolishly‖ ( GE 272), and amasses

serious debt. In an earlier return visit to Miss Havisham‘s house where he again sees Estella, he

comments, ―Truly it was impossible to dissociate her presence from all those wretched

hankerings after money and gentility that had disturbed my boyhood—from all those ill-

regulated aspirations that had first made me ashamed of home and Joe . . .‖ ( GE 236). Although

he recognizes the destructive behavior she has engendered within him, he continues to pursue a

path of reckless squandering of his benefactor‘s gift.

During Pip‘s first visit with Miss Havisham, he learns to wear masks to disguise his true

feelings. Estella treats him with such cruelty and disdain that he is reduced to tears; however,

upon seeing ―quick delight in having been the cause of them‖ ( GE 63) in Estella‘s eyes, he

refuses to cry any more in front of her. Later she asks him, ―Why don‘t you cry?‖ and his false

response is, ―Because I don‘t want to‖ ( GE 66). Pip cries no more over Estella; but his outward

callousness is merely a self-protective mask. After he returns home from this visit, nevertheless,

he dons a mask of another kind. He fabricates an account of the luxuries of Satis House for his

sister and Pumblechook, including Miss Havisham ―in a black velvet coach,‖ being fed ―cake

and wine at the coach-window, on a gold plate,‖ four large dogs ―[fighting] for veal-cutlets out

of a silver basket‖ ( GE 68), and playing with flags and swords ( GE 69). Admitting to Joe that he

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made all of it up, he explains ―that there had been a beautiful young lady at Miss Havisham‘s

who was dreadfully proud, and that she had said I was common, and that I knew I was common,

and that I wished I was not common, and that the lies had come of it somehow, though I didn‘t

know how‖ ( GE 71). Just as Pip places responsibility for this mask on Estella, the others that he

later assumes are due to her influence as well. He deludes himself into believing that Miss

Havisham is his benefactor because of his hope that she is preparing him for Estella. When he

finds out the true identity of his patron, he is ashamed; there is little doubt that he would hide the

truth for his own sake, but he is instead thrown into a complicated plot to keep Magwitch hidden

from the authorities, a plot that requires him to wear a mask not for his own benefit, but for his

benefactor‘s.

Pip‘s efforts to help Magwitch escape may be considered on one hand to be a part of his

redemption; on the other hand, it may be considered an illegal action, and thus indicative of the

vice that Rousseau saw as part of the civilized man. Other than this, Pip is guilty of no criminal

activity, but he participates in and even instigates several instances of immoral behavior. For

instance, he abandons the best friend of his childhood and treats him with disdain; he amasses

tremendous debt and leads his friend Herbert into similar dire straits; and he rejects Magwitch

when he realizes that his benefactor is not a gentleman himself (or a gentlewoman). Pip does

eventually regain his kindheartedness, but for a large portion of the novel, he is a self-indulgent

and unfeeling man.

Pip‘s lack of compassion is more visible to the reader than it is to the characters who are

deserving of it. Because we see the story through Pip‘s eyes and his telling, we are aware of the

many times he is judgmental and critical, particularly of Joe and Magwitch. We realize, when

Joe visits Pip in London for the first time, that Pip‘s aloofness is painful to Joe; however, Pip

seems to have lost all feeling and does nothing to alleviate Joe‘s discomfort. By the time he

realizes his mistake, Joe is gone. Throughout the novel, especially the last chapters, the reader

sees that Pip can be compassionate; however, from the time he meets Estella until the time he

meets Magwitch, he refuses to share the love and simple human sympathy that he himself has

yearned for all his life.

Barbara Hardy says that Great Expectations depicts ―loss of innocence in a world where

love requires the right manners, the right accent, the right clothes, and the right income‖ ( Writer

and His Work 84). Pip‘s loss of innocence becomes his civilizing process, and yet this is not the

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end of the story. Pip, like Scrooge, is redeemed, and becomes Dickens‘s version of Rousseau‘s

citizen.

Dickens‘s final completed novel, Our Mutual Friend , contains an overwhelming majority

of civilized characters as opposed to those with natural characteristics. Critics have claimed that

this is the darkest of Dickens‘s novels, depicting as it does, according to Barnard, ―the vile

results of the rickety, inefficient, wasteful capitalist system which the mid-Victorian era has

produced‖ (126). The characters range from river scavenger, extortionists, and psychopaths to

high-society wannabes and pretenders—each of whom displays several if not all of the civilized

characteristics. In the long list of the civilized men and women in Our Mutual Friend , one

stands out in particular as having all seven of the traits: ―Fascination‖ Fledgeby.

The reader‘s introduction to Fledgeby is misleading. He is described and portrayed as an

innocent young man with no social skills and no facial hair:

Young Fledgeby had a peachy cheek, or a cheek compounded of the peach and the red

red red wall on which it grows, and was an awkward, sandy-haired, small-eyed youth,

exceeding slim . . . , and prone to self-examination in the articles of whisker and

moustache. While feeling for the whisker that he anxiously expected, Fledgeby

underwent remarkable fluctuations of spirits, ranging along the whole scale from

confidence to despair. . . ( OMF 260)

His youthful countenance prefigures his social ineptness upon meeting Georgiana Podsnap

through the Lammles‘ arrangement. Known (and nicknamed) for ―the smallness of his talk, and

the jerky nature of his manners‖ ( OMF 261), Fledgeby makes ―monosyllabic replies‖ in response

to the promptings of Mrs. Lammle in such a way that he seems to be conversing with Georgiana:

―Through this device the two young people conversed at great length and committed themselves

to a variety of delicate sentiments, without having once opened their lips, save to say yes or no,

and even that not to one another‖ ( OMF 265).

The significance of this behavior to Fledgeby‘s characterization as a civilized man is not

clear until we see, in the next chapter, that this is only a mask. There we are told that he is ―the

meanest cur existing, with a single pair of legs. And instinct . . . going largely on four legs, and

reason always on two, meanness on four legs never attains the perfection of meanness on two‖

( OMF 266). He is ―known secretly to be a kind of outlaw in the bill-broking line, and to put

money out at high interest in various ways‖ ( OMF 269). Calling his firm ―Pubsey and Co.,‖ he

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masks his connection with it by using Riah, ―an old Jewish man‖ ( OMF 273), as his

representative. He instructs Riah, ―If they ask [my name], say it‘s Pubsey, or say it‘s Co., or say

it‘s anything you like, but what it is‖ ( OMF 280). Fledgeby presents a front that Riah is actually

the harsh money-lender, and that he is acquainted with him but is not involved in the business.

He is actually describing himself when he says, ―. . . this Riah is a nasty one . . .,‖ and ―Riah is a

tough subject‖ ( OMF 550), and when he confronts Riah in the presence of the Lammles, two of

his clients: ―Oh, you sinner! Oh, you dodger! What! You‘re going to act upon that bill of sale

at Lammle‘s, are you? Nothing will turn you, won‘t it? You won‘t be put off for another single

minute, won‘t you?‖ ( OMF 552). He presents a similar face to Twemlow, to whom the firm has

also lent money. He says, ―I don‘t like Riah‘s calling in the principal. If he‘s determined to call

it in, it must come‖ ( OMF 558), and follows with the threat of prison if Twemlow does not pay.

Again, he plays the role of advocate for the debtor so convincingly that Riah wonders if he is

sincere: ―The old man looked into Fledgeby‘s little eyes for any sign of leave to be easy with

Mr. Twemlow, but there was no sign in them‖ ( OMF 560). Nevertheless, over time, Mrs.

Lammle discerns the truth. She tells Twemlow, ―Mr. Twemlow . . . it has fallen into Fledgeby‘s

hands. Mr. Riah is his mask. It has fallen into Mr. Fledgeby‘s hands‖ ( OMF 608). Jenny Wren

also sees beyond the mask. She ponders,

―Can‘t make it out. Little Eyes [Fledgeby] and the wolf [Riah] in a conspiracy? Or

Little Eyes and the wolf against one another? Can‘t make it out . . . Is Little Eyes

Pubsey, and the wolf Co? Can‘t make it out. Pubsey true to Co, and Co to Pubsey?

Pubsey false to Co, and Co to Pubsey? Can‘t make it out. What said Little Eyes?

. . . Ah! However the cat jumps, he’s a liar. That‘s all I can make out at present; but

you may go to bed in the Albany, Piccadilly, with that for your pillow, young man!‖

( OMF 700-701)

Once Fledgeby is unmasked, he disappears from the scene of the novel.

Money-lenders in Dickens are always in the business because of their greed. Fledgeby is

no exception, and his greed leads to his primary vice. His avarice is established early in the

reader‘s acquaintance with him:

Whether this young gentleman . . . combined with the miserly vice of an old man,

any of the open-handed vices of a young one, was a moot point . . . he drove a hard

bargain for every moveable about him, from the coat on his back to the china on his

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breakfast-table; and every bargain, by representing somebody‘s ruin or somebody‘s loss,

acquired a peculiar charm for him. It was a part of his avarice to take, within narrow

bounds, long odds at races; if he won, he drove harder bargains; if he lost, he half starved

himself until next time. Why money should be so precious to an Ass too dull and mean

to exchange it for any other satisfaction, is strange; but there is no animal so sure to get

laden with it, as the Ass who sees nothing written on the face of the earth and sky but the

three letters L. S. D.—not Luxury, Sensuality, Dissoluteness, which they often stand for,

but the three dry letters [pounds, shillings, pence]. ( OMF 269)

Like Ralph Nickleby, Scrooge, and Uriah Heep before him, Fledgeby enjoys the power, not the

material possessions, that money can give him, and he apparently cannot get enough.

Fledgeby‘s greed, his vice, and his lack of compassion are connected in several ways. He

uses Riah as his front man because of his anti-Semitic belief in the avarice of the Jewish people

(a not uncommon belief in Victorian society). We are told at one point that Fledgeby ―[exults] in

the artful cleverness with which he [has] turned his thumb down on a Jew . . .‖ ( OMF 280). He

judges Riah based on his prejudice rather than on Riah‘s faithful job performance; when

questioned by Riah on this point, he states, ―I don‘t find it worth my while to cut things so fine as

to go into the inquiry‖ ( OMF 419). Riah responds, ―Not in justice? . . . Not in generosity?‖

( OMF 419), and Fledgeby retorts, ―Bother justice! . . . Jews and generosity! . . . That‘s a good

connexion!‖ ( OMF 419-20). He shows no partiality toward Christians, however. He says,

―Look out, fellow-Christians, particularly you that lodge in Queer Street! I have got the

run of Queer Street now, and you shall see some games there. To work a lot of power

over you and you not know it, knowing as you think yourselves, would be almost worth

laying out money upon. But when it comes to squeezing a profit out of you into the

bargain, it‘s something like!‖ ( OMF 427-28)

Fledgeby displays no compassion towards the Lammles (who fail to inspire the reader‘s

sympathy as well) nor toward old Twemlow, threatening him with prison if he does not pay.

Riah, as Fledgeby‘s mouthpiece, expresses the amount of clemency Twemlow can expect: ―Do

not deceive yourself, Mr. Twemlow . . . There is no hope for you. You must expect no lenience

here. You must pay in full, and you cannot pay too promptly, or you will be put to heavy

charges. Trust nothing to me, sir. Money, money, money‖ ( OMF 561). Because of Fledgeby‘s

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lack of compassion for his clients, the reader feels absolutely none for him when he is beaten by

Lammle and peppered by Jenny Wren.

Just as he has no compassion, Fledgeby denies to Twemlow that he has pride of any kind

after Twemlow claims that he can ―distinguish between true pride and false pride‖ ( OMF 557):

―‗I have no pride at all, myself,‘ [says] Fledgeby, ‗and perhaps I don‘t cut things so fine as to

know one from t‘other‘‖ ( OMF 557). We have seen enough from him to know, however, that he

does have amour propre . He demonstrates it in the following:

Fascination Fledgeby, left alone in the counting-house, strolled about with his hat

on one side, whistling, and investigating the drawers, and prying here and there for any

small evidences of his being cheated, but could find none. ‗Not his merit that he don‘t

cheat me,‘ was Mr. Fledgeby‘s commentary delivered with a wink, ‗but my precaution.‘

He then with a lazy grandeur asserted his rights as Lord of Pubsey and Co. by poking his

cane at the stools and boxes, and spitting in the fireplace, and so loitered royally to the

window and looked out into the narrow street, with his small eyes just peering over the

top of Pubsey and Co.‘s blind. ( OMF 553)

Fledgeby‘s amour propre , as well as his external mode of measuring his self worth, are

inseparable from the civilized characteristics discussed in the previous paragraph. Fledgeby, like

several of the other civilized characters discussed here, gauges his self worth by the response he

evokes from others, and the reader is given the impression that Fledgeby has no friends, only

victims. He enjoys the power he gains over others by lending them money or by buying their

debts, because he is then in a position to bully them. Interestingly, though, he bullies them

through Riah in order to keep his identity secret as the heartless moneylender. His bullying

nature and especially his reluctance to act for himself are indications that, like Bumble in Oliver

Twist , he is a coward. Fledgeby is quite proud as long as he has the upper hand; however, when

someone stands up to him, as Lammle does in Book II and again in Book IV, his weakness and

insecurity are evident. In Book II, Lammle demands that Fledgeby ―give [him his] nose,‖ and

Fledgeby responds, ―I beg, I beg, you won‘t . . . No! Stop! I beg your pardon‖ ( OMF 271). He

adds, ―I must have gone too far in making myself disagreeable . . . but I never intended it‖ ( OMF

272). Of course, we might suspect that this humility, too, is a mask worn by Fledgeby to keep

his intended victim in his power, and thus having resolved the present conflict, he has both

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maintained control and regained his pride. Whichever is the case, Fledgeby completes the list of

traits and proves himself a thoroughly civilized man.

From Pickwick Papers to Our Mutual Friend , Dickens‘s novels contain a plethora of

characters who fit Rousseau‘s description of civilized man. Some are heinous criminals, and we

may doubt that they could ever have been naturally good. In several cases, however, Dickens

gives background information showing that, as with Godwin‘s Theory of Necessity, a series of

influences or events led to their corruption. Other civilized characters are less completely

corrupted, perhaps exhibiting only a few of the characteristics, yet they are still caught up in the

institutions or by the influences of society. Regardless of the level of corruption/civilization in

the characters, in Dickens‘s novels, conflicts stem from one or more of Rousseau‘s civilized

characteristics.

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CHAPTER 5

DICKENS‘S CITIZENS

Beyond civilized characters, Rousseau created one more designation, this one outside the

natural/civilized continuum. These characters are redeemed; reclaimed from their civilized lives,

they discover how to live as natural men or women in a civilized world. These characters move

not back to a state of nature, but to a higher plane—that of ―the citizen.‖

In The Social Contract, Rousseau recognizes that civilized society as a whole is now a

permanent reality, that most human beings are unable to escape the influences of civilization and,

therefore, must learn to live productively within it. Rousseau‘s scope in The Social Contract

goes beyond concerns in this study. The important point is his belief in humankind‘s ability to

rise above the corruption of society to become ―citizens.‖ Rousseau defines his citizen most

clearly in political terms; however, implicit in his description are the characteristics of the natural

man, including recognition of the existence of others in the world, others who are equal in worth

and deserve our respect and compassion, and with whom we should share our material wealth.

Thus, Rousseau seems to advocate living as—rather, being—a natural man in the civilized

world, living cooperatively, deferring to the welfare of the whole, not solely the well-being of

self. This individual transformation, he believes, is the only way to change and improve the

world.

Dickens demonstrates a similar, if not identical, belief. His was not political philosophy,

nor philosophy of any other kind, but he displays over and over a belief in humankind‘s ability to

return, to revive, to remake themselves into the type Rousseau termed ―citizens.‖ Critics have

described variously how Dickens presents this optimistic viewpoint. Most declare that he was

not a utopian who believed that society as a whole could be repaired and corrected, and thus

made perfect. They posit that instead he believed, as Rousseau did, in individual transformation.

For instance, Barbara Hardy says that he ―[represents] the power and fragile strength of the

individual human heart, to which [he] . . . pinned his hopes‖ ( The Later Novels , 14-15). Robert

Barnard states that Dickens wanted to believe in the possibility of actually beginning life over

again, a hope represented in Stephen Blackpool and Pip, among others. Finding new beginnings

impossible, however, Dickens came to the conclusion that ―one cannot reject what one has been,

one can only use the past to attain a better spiritual condition in the future‖ (16). Dennis Walder

draws a comparison between the beliefs of Dickens and Carlyle, noting that both believed in ―a

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concept of conversion which did not primarily involve an acceptance of Christ, or the innate

sinfulness of man, but which did involve a spiritual transformation affirming a new

consciousness of oneself and one‘s place in the universe‖ (114). In discussing the influence of

both primitivism and progressivism on thought in the nineteenth century, Malcolm Andrews

indicates that these theories merge in the works of Dickens and others, in which ―the chief object

is either to retrieve or to reconstitute that natural humanity suffering somewhere beneath the

layers of civilisation which increasing affluence has accumulated‖ ( Grown-Up Child 13).

As Andrews implies, the redemption of civilized humanity goes beyond individual

transformation; societal implications exist as well. Sanders says that even in the later novels,

―Dickens considers both how the individual finds his place in society and how he rises above the

shortcomings of his world by working to improve it‖ ( Resurrectionist 174). As both Dickens

and Rousseau conclude, a civilized society cannot return to nature; individual redemption is the

only hope. However, this personal transformation, according to both writers, can lead to societal

transformation. Whether or not this change actually takes place, the individual is the key.

Josephine Guy says that Dickens shared a belief with Eliot, Kingsley, and Gaskell that ―social

life may only be transformed by changes within the behaviours of individuals—that sociability

depends upon individuals becoming more moral (that is, less selfish and less materialistic)‖

(201).

Some critics claim that Dickens became extremely pessimistic during his later years and

that his darkened world view is reflected in the novels roughly from Martin Chuzzlewit (1843)

onward. Jerome Meckier asserts that Dickens became ―convinced of the ineradicable evil in

man, that hint of the aboriginal beneath society‘s foundations new or old‖ (37-38), and that he

lost his earlier optimism. F. S. Schwarzbach, in a less extreme view, finds in the later novels an

―emphasis on atonement, which must be entirely a personal action‖ and which involves ―the

consequent turning away from engagement in (and the possibility of changing) the social world‖

(172). Not all critics believe, however, that Dickens‘s theory, even as presented in the later

novels, involves so dark a pessimism that he advocates withdrawal from society or concession to

a fallen world. Andrew Sanders refuses to say that Dickens became pessimistic in the later

novels; he sees the criticism ―directed against a pervasive demoralisation. Dickens nevertheless

maintains his faith in human survival through an exposition of the destinies of those major

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characters who, with due grace, embody a redemptive process and manage to rise above a

general dehumanisation‖ ( Resurrectionist 174). Sanders adds,

In his last novels Dickens is examining a society, both past and present, which is

poisoned and which poisons; it is variously violent, stratified and mercenary, and yet it

remains redeemable. . . Dickens points to the individual‘s potential for regeneration and

to his ability to overcome the social ills to which he is heir. ( Resurrectionist 166)

The examination of novels in the present study proves the validity of Sanders‘ statement.

Guy aptly expresses the basic issue involved in Dickens‘s presentation of his belief in the

possibility of human redemption: ―The conundrum is not . . . whether individuals, as individuals,

are able to change their ways; but whether they want to: that is, whether morality is fundamental

to human nature, and therefore whether it does indeed exist in us all to be recovered‖ (136). An

examination of the novels discussed here reveals that many, even most, of the civilized

characters are offered an opportunity for redemption; while some of them accept the opportunity,

others refuse. Various critics claim this truth as proof that Dickens found some people

irredeemable; for instance, Valerie Kennedy says, ―In cases like those of Bill Sikes or Orlick,

moreover, there is surely no hope at all‖ (217). However, Dickens almost always presents the

lack of redemption in civilized characters as the result of their own choice. Some even choose

death rather than redemption.

Alfred Jingle in Pickwick Papers , however, chooses to become a citizen. Having proven

himself a completely civilized man possessing all of Rousseau‘s traits, Jingle and his friend Job

Trotter become ―worthy members of society‖ ( PP 876) in the West Indies. Given the

opportunity for redemption by Pickwick, Jingle is, as Dickens says in a letter to Bertha Coutts,

―tempted to virtue‖ (qtd. in Walder 59), and he yields. (Of course, he also faces the gallows if he

does not live lawfully.) Watching Jingle and Trotter depart, Pickwick asks Mr. Perker, ―What do

you think? Is there any chance of their permanent reformation?‖ ( PP 819). Perker rejoins,

―Of course there is a chance. I hope it may prove a good one. They are un-

questionably penitent now; but then, you know, they have the recollection of very recent

suffering fresh upon them. What they may become, when that fades away, is a problem

that neither you nor I can solve. However, my dear Sir, . . . your object is equally

honourable, whatever the result is. Whether that species of benevolence which is so very

cautious and long-sighted that it is seldom exercised at all, lest its owner should be

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imposed upon, and so wounded in his self-love, be real charity, or a worldly counterfeit, I

leave to wiser heads than mine to determine. But if those two fellows were to commit a

burglary to-morrow, my opinion of this action would be equally high.‖ ( PP 819)

Perker‘s answer indicates Pickwick‘s, and most likely Dickens‘s, belief that even the most

incorrigible characters deserve the opportunity to change their wicked ways. It also points up the

conviction that people rise to the expectations of those who show faith in them. That Dickens

held this belief is evident in his treatment theory regarding former prostitutes housed in Miss

Burdett Coutts‘s Home for Fallen Women. According to Walder, ―For Dickens, as for many of

his contemporaries, charity operates on the assumption of original virtue: we are created in

God‘s image, which is good, and so there will remain at least a spark of divinity in even the most

depraved‖ (59). Sometimes, as with Jingle, the civilized man only needs someone who can offer

the opportunity and the hope of rediscovering that ―spark of divinity.‖ Pickwick provides both

for Jingle, and in the final paragraph of the novel, we learn that ―he never had occasion to regret

his bounty to Mr. Jingle . . .‖ ( PP 876). The fact that Jingle and Trotter continue to ―[object] to

return to the scenes of their old haunts and temptations‖ ( PP 876) indicates their determination to

remain citizens instead of revisiting their civilized existence.

In Oliver Twist , several characters are offered the opportunity for redemption, but only

one seizes the opportunity. Dickens addresses this issue in his Preface to the Third Edition

(1841):

. . . I fear there are in the world some insensible and callous natures that do become, at

last, utterly and irredeemably bad. But whether this be so or not, of one thing I am

certain: that there are such men as Sikes, who, being closely followed through the same

space of time and through the same current of circumstances, would not give, by one look

or action of a moment, the faintest indication of a better nature. Whether every gentler

human feeling is dead within such bosoms, or the proper chord to strike has rusted and is

hard to find, I do not know; but that the fact is so, I am sure. ( OT lxiv-lxv)

Dickens‘s saying that these characters have become bad indicates an earlier goodness; his saying

that ―every gentler human feeling is dead‖ indicates that once such feelings were alive; his

speaking of the ―proper chord‖ being ―rusted‖ indicates that it once was shiny and unoxidized,

and ―hard to find‖ that it is, nevertheless, still there. In the reader‘s view of Bill Sikes, Fagin,

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and Monks, however, no visible sign of recoverable goodness appears, yet all three are given the

opportunity for redemption.

Sikes‘s opportunity comes through Nancy, yet another civilized character who teeters

between the life of corruption she has long known and the respectable life of the citizen offered

to her by Rose Maylie and Mr. Brownlow. Told that ―there was something of the woman‘s

original nature left in her still‖ ( OT 270), we are not surprised when Rose extols, ―Your having

interfered in this dear boy‘s behalf before, . . . your coming here, at so great a risk, to tell me

what you have heard; your manner, which convinces me of the truth of what you say; your

evident contrition, and sense of shame; all lead me to believe that you might yet be reclaimed‖

( OT 273). Rose entreats further, ―Think once again on your own condition, and the opportunity

you have of escaping from it . . . Will you return to this gang of robbers, and to this man, when a

word can save you?‖ ( OT 274). On a subsequent occasion, Mr. Brownlow adds his voice to

Rose‘s in response to Nancy‘s statement that she is ―past all hope‖ ( OT 315): ―You put yourself

beyond its pale . . . The past has been a dreary waste with you, of youthful energies mis-spent,

and such priceless treasures lavished, as the Creator bestows but once and never grants again,

but, for the future, you may hope‖ ( OT 315). While the opportunity for a return to life is offered

to her over and over, Nancy repeatedly refuses it out of a mixture of emotions—fear, of Bill‘s

retaliation if she leaves him and of a life she has never known; and love, misguided though it

may be, for Bill, even Fagin. In the end, she declares, ―I am chained to my old life. I loathe and

hate it now, but I cannot leave it. I must have gone too far to turn back. . .‖ ( OT 316). Yet when

she returns to Bill, she begs him to seek the same mercy from Rose and Mr. Brownlow, who

have offered to send her to a foreign country to ―end [her] days in solitude and peace‖ ( OT 322).

She pleads with Bill, ―. . . let us both leave this dreadful place, and far apart lead better lives, and

forget how we have lived, except in prayers, and never see each other more. It is never too late

to repent. They told me so—I feel it now—but we must have time—a little, little time!‖ ( OT

322). These, of course, are her dying words; Bill‘s response is to murder her.

Nancy displays several characteristics of the natural woman. She does not have the greed

of Sikes or Fagin, refusing to take money for the help she has given Rose and Mr. Brownlow.

Although fearful, she acts according to her own standard of right and wrong; she does not

pretend to be someone she is not; and she shows heartfelt compassion for Oliver and even for

Sikes and Fagin. One might argue that she is actually a natural character; yet by her own

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admission, she has not always been so. In society‘s eyes, as well as her own, she is corrupted by

her way of life and therefore needs redemption. We are left to decide if her final actions, to save

Oliver and to save both Bill and herself, are enough to prove her redeemed, and therefore a

citizen.

Few would argue the same about Bill Sikes. After murdering Nancy he runs from

London, frantically haunted by the vision of her corpse. Happening upon a massive fire in the

country, he joins in the fight to subdue it. We are told, ―It was like new life to him‖ ( OT 328),

but that his participation is an effort to ―[fly] from memory and himself‖ ( OT 328). When the

fire is out and excitement quieted, he once more feels ―the dreadful consciousness of his crime‖

( OT 329). Any thought that his feelings arise from conscience and a sense of guilt and are thus

indicative of a move toward redemption are quickly dispelled; Bill‘s only interest is self-

preservation. He fears apprehension, but evidences no sorrow for his violent deed. His death

precludes our knowing whether or not he is ―irredeemably bad‖ ( OT lxiv), but death is often the

fate of Dickens‘s civilized men who refuse repentance and redemption. Fagin is another case in

point. Imprisoned and sentenced to death, he ignores Oliver‘s compassion and prayers, pleading

instead for Oliver to help him escape. This failing, Fagin encounters ―the hideous apparatus of

death‖ ( OT 364).

Monks, also given the opportunity for redemption and a new life, becomes the fourth

character in Oliver Twist to die rather than yield the civilized life. After learning Monks‘

relation to Oliver and his motivation for corrupting his half-brother, Mr. Brownlow proposes that

the ―wreck of property remaining‖ be divided between Monks and Oliver: ―By the provision of

his father‘s will, Oliver would have been entitled to the whole; but Mr. Brownlow, unwilling to

deprive the elder son of the opportunity of retrieving his former vices and pursuing an honest

career, proposed this mode of distribution, to which his young charge joyfully acceded‖ ( OT

365). Monks, however, takes his three thousand pounds and goes to the ―New World‖ where he

―quickly [squanders] it . . . once more [falls] into his old courses, and, after undergoing a long

confinement for some fresh act of fraud and knavery, at length [sinks] under an attack of his old

disorder, and [dies] in prison‖ ( OT 365).

Lest Oliver Twist be considered a novel of hopeless civilized characters, we must

highlight the one who does choose to the redeemed—Charley Bates:

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. . . appalled by Sikes‘s crime, [he] fell into a train of reflection whether an honest life

was not, after all, the best. Arriving at the conclusion that it certainly was, he turned his

back upon the scenes of the past, resolved to amend it in some new sphere of action. He

struggled hard, and suffered much, for some time; but, having a contented disposition,

and a good purpose, succeeded in the end; and, from being a farmer‘s drudge, and a

carrier‘s lad, he is now the merriest young grazier in all Northamptonshire. ( OT 367)

While given no proof of his change except his now living legally and happily, we may assume

that, in contrast to the other members of his gang, Master Charles Bates has become a citizen.

If we only consider the number of characters who are redeemed, then Nicholas Nickleby

might be one of Dickens‘s bleakest novels. It perhaps has more than its share of nearly, if not

fully, natural characters, but it is filled with civilized characters—most innocuous, a few

genuinely monstrous. Of the most abhorrent, one appears redeemable—Lord Frederick

Verisopht. In fact, he is ―the only member of the party [of Hawk and his associates] who [is] not

thoroughly irredeemable, and who really [has] a kind heart‖ ( NN 464). Verisopht is much less

corrupted and odious than his cohort, Sir Mulberry Hawk, although in early appearances he

displays no compassion for Kate, seeking to use her as deplorably as Hawk and her uncle do. As

the story proceeds, however, his actions suggest that he is not hopelessly civilized. During

Nicholas‘s altercation with Hawk, Verisopht merely ―[draws] a toothpick from a glass before

him, and very leisurely [applies] it to his mouth‖ ( NN 396), but afterwards, he expresses his

remorse:

―If you had told him who you were; if you had given him your card, and found out

afterwards that his station or character prevented your fighting him, it would have been

bad enough then; upon my soul it would have been bad enough then. As it is, you did

wrong. I did wrong too, not to interfere, and I am sorry for it. What happened to you

afterwards was as much the consequence of accident as design, and more your fault than

his; and it shall not, with my knowledge, be cruelly visited upon him—it shall not

indeed.‖ ( NN 469)

When Hawk has fully recovered and purposes to get revenge on Nicholas, Verisopht is quite

disturbed:

. . . the young lord having thought—which he very seldom did about anything—having

thought, and seriously too, upon the affair with Nicholas, and the circumstances which

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led to it, had arrived at a manly and honest conclusion. Sir Mulberry‘s coarse and

insulting behaviour on the occasion in question had produced a deep impression on his

mind . . . he was really ashamed of his share in the transaction . . . ( NN 622)

Along with these thoughts, however, are those arising from his amour propre : ―A strong

suspicion of his having led him on to pursue Miss Nickleby for purposes of his own, had been

lurking there for some time; he was . . . deeply mortified by the misgiving that he had been

gulled‖ ( NN 622-623). But Hawk‘s failure to retract, on Verisopht‘s demand, his statements

regarding Kate leads to the duel that proves fatal for Verisopht, and thus his redemption is never

achieved.

Even the novel‘s arch-villain, Ralph Nickleby, is given the opportunity for redemption.

As the truth about Ralph‘s underhanded dealings comes to light, as well as his relationship with

Smike, the Cheerybles offer him a chance to make up for his dastardly deeds and begin anew.

Charles tells him, ―We entreat you to retire from London, to take shelter in some place where

you will be safe from the consequences of these wicked designs, and where you may have time,

sir, to atone for them, and to become a better man‖ ( NN 729-30). Ralph, however, refuses the

offer in no uncertain terms:

―And do you think,‖ returned Ralph, rising, with the sneer of a devil, ―and do you

think you will so easily crush me? Do you think that a hundred well-arranged plans, or a

hundred suborned witnesses, or a hundred false curs at my heels, or a hundred canting

speeches full of oily words, will move me? I thank you for disclosing your schemes,

which I am now prepared for. You have not the man to deal with that you think; try me,

and remember that I spit upon your fair words and false dealings, and dare you—provoke

you—taunt you—to do to me the very worst you can!‖ ( NN 730)

With this response, we might wonder if any vestige of good inheres in such a man, but hints of

compassion and goodness have appeared. Even in the last moments of his life, he considers the

events of his life that have desensitized him:

He began to think now, that his [his son‘s] supposed death and his wife‘s flight had had

some share in making him the morose, hard man he was. He seemed to remember a time

when he was not quite so rough and obdurate, and almost thought that he had first hated

Nicholas because he was young and gallant, and perhaps like the stripling who had

brought dishonor and loss of fortune on his head. ( NN 751)

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Unfortunately, however, this softening proves only momentary, and his dying words reveal his

refusal of redemption: ―No bell or book for me; throw me on a dunghill, and let me rot there to

infect the air!‖ ( NN 753).

In Martin Chuzzlewit , redemption takes place, but only as a minor plot element. The title

character demonstrates all of the civilized traits, the most prominent being amour propre and a

dependence on an external mode of self-evaluation. Martin the younger is one of many

characters who ―exhibit in a variety of aspects the commonest of all the vices . . . [who] show

how Selfishness propagates itself; and to what a grim giant it may grow, from small beginnings‖

(Dickens, ―Preface to the ‗Cheap Edition,‘‖ Penguin MC 39), and he clearly displays pride and

an inflated sense of his own importance. In reality, all civilized traits stem from selfishness—

greed, pride, lack of compassion, and so on—and Dickens summarizes the transformation of

Martin by focusing on the one all-encompassing characteristic.

Key to Martin‘s redemption is the deadly fever from which both he and Mark nearly die.

Martin contracts the sickness, and Mark patiently nurses him back to health; he then falls ill

himself. During Mark‘s time of delirium and unresponsiveness, Martin has time to compare his

own character to that of his friend. He asks himself, ―How [is] it that this man who [has] had so

few advantages, [is] so much better than [I] who [have] had so many?‖ ( MC 524). Reflecting on

Mark‘s response to a fellow passenger on the ocean voyage, Martin realizes that Mark showed

her compassion; he did not. This realization leads to further reflection:

Martin‘s nature was a frank and generous one; but he had been bred up in his

grandfather‘s house; and it will usually be found that the meaner domestic vices

propagate themselves to be their own antagonists. Selfishness does this especially; so do

suspicion, cunning, stealth, and covetous propensities. Martin had unconsciously

reasoned as a child, ―My guardian takes so much thought of himself, that unless I do the

like by myself, I shall be forgotten.‖ So he had grown selfish.

But he had never known it. If any one had taxed him with the vice, he would

have indignantly repelled the accusation, and conceived himself unworthily aspersed. He

never would have known it, but that being newly risen from a bed of dangerous sickness,

to watch by such another couch, he felt how nearly Self had dropped into the grave, and

what a poor dependent, miserable thing it was. ( MC 524-25)

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As ―the curtain slowly [rises]‖ upon Self for Martin, he begins the process of redemption. The

more he contemplates, the more vivid the image becomes. He reaches the following conclusion:

He made a solemn resolution that when his strength returned he would not dispute

the point or resist the conviction, but would look upon it as an established fact, that

selfishness was in his breast, and must be rooted out. He was so doubtful (and with

justice) of his own character, that he determined not to say one word of vain regret or

good resolve to Mark, but steadily to keep his purpose before his own eyes solely: and

there was not a jot of pride in this; nothing but humility and stedfastness: the best armour

he could wear. So low had Eden brought him down. So high had Eden raised him up.

( MC 525)

Upon Mark‘s recovery, he notices that Martin ―don‘t think of himself half as much‖ ( MC

528). This renunciation of selfishness continues throughout the remainder of the novel,

exhibited in Martin‘s treatment of Mark and Tom Pinch as equals rather than as inferiors, and his

compassion for Mark, Mary, and his grandfather. Through the process and, as previously noted,

with Tom Pinch‘s help, old Martin also finds redemption through his own renunciation of

selfishness and a new disposition within his heart ―to believe in better things‖ ( MC 805). His

grandfather‘s forgiveness and the peaceful resolution of family conflicts are the last components

necessary for Martin‘s complete redemption.

Interestingly, Jerome Meckier claims that ―Martin returns home [from America] less

innocent, with a lower estimate of social process and mankind‘s potential but a higher sense of

personal prestige as a cultivated European newly appreciative of England‘s traditions and

restraints‖ (35). However, Martin returns to the world of Pecksniff, Jonas, and Montague Tigg—

a world that is corrupted with the same pride, greed, pretension, and violence that he found in

America. Contrary to Meckier, Walder posits that in Martin, Dickens is showing ―a flawed,

selfish hero . . . transformed into a new man, generous, forgiving and charitable‖ (116). Walder

adds, ―[Martin] has to learn to transcend his self-absorption through experiencing the demands

upon his compassion and fellow-feeling made by others‖ (119). In short, Martin‘s American

experience is a redemptive one, and he returns to England a citizen in the making.

As shown in Chapter 4, Ebenezer Scrooge is fully civilized, yet A Christmas Carol is a

story of redemption—miraculous and fantastic though it may be. Scrooge‘s journey into the past

reminds him of his former self at the same time it allows the reader to see that he was not born

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―utterly and irredeemably bad‖ (Dickens, OT lxiv). Though the means of his redemption are

incredible, Dickens wants the reader to see that redemption is possible even for the most

hardened and civilized among us. As Walder suggests,

Dickens wishes to convert his readers from this coldly complacent worldview to one in

which love, charity and hope are dominant . . . No reader feels himself to be as miserly

and mean as Scrooge; yet there were, and are, recognizable traits in him which clarify

Dickens‘s aim: to provoke a similar, if less miraculous, change of heart in us. (121)

The first of the three spirits declares openly to Scrooge that his purpose is to bring about

his ―reclamation‖ ( CC 56). The first glimpse we see of this possibility comes when the spirit

takes him to his boyhood school. His lip trembles, his voice catches, his ―cold eye [glistens], and

his heart [leaps] up‖ as he sees his former schoolmates and his childhood surroundings. Seeing

himself as the one lone child left at school, he ―[weeps] to see his poor forgotten self as he had

used to be‖ ( CC 58). He feels ―pity for his former self‖ ( CC 59), and then connects himself with

the boy caroler who had sung at his door the previous night. Magnet, Hardy, and Walder point

to this incident as instrumental in bringing about Scrooge‘s redemption. Magnet suggests, ―His

reclamation begins with his being forcibly confronted again with all that childhood pain and

coming at last to look on his younger self with a compassion hitherto frozen by the shame and

humiliation that overshadowed his childhood‖ (24-25). Likewise, Walder says,

Scrooge‘s conversion begins with the enforced contemplation of childhood memories,

and it is one of Dickens‘s deeper and more convincing insights that his alienation from

humanity is shown to be rooted in self-alienation. He has to experience pity for himself,

and come to terms with his past, before he can be moved to pity others in the present.

(122-23)

Hardy concurs with this point of view; she says that Scrooge‘s pity for himself ―brings with it the

first movement of imaginative self-criticism‖ ( Writer and His Work 55-56).

The next step comes soon thereafter, when the spirit takes Scrooge to a Christmas ball at

Fezziwig‘s home. Once again, Scrooge forgets his present self in the joy of the moment: ―His

heart and soul were in the scene, and with his former self. He corroborated everything,

remembered everything, enjoyed everything . . .‖ ( CC 64). Just as he finds compassion in the

remembrance of his boyhood, here he finds a spirit of generosity. Scrooge realizes, or

remembers, that Fezziwig ―has the power to render us happy or unhappy; to make our service

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light or burdensome; a pleasure or a toil‖ ( CC 64), all with just a few pounds. In another

moment of insight, Scrooge discovers that he, too, has this power.

By the time the Ghost of Christmas Past shows Scrooge the scene of Belle‘s rejection, he

is civilized, making a logical segue to the next visit, from the Ghost of Christmas Present.

Unlike his resistance to the first spirit, Scrooge shows the redemptive process working when he

tells the second, ―Conduct me where you will. I went forth last night on compulsion, and I learnt

a lesson which is working now. To-night, if you have aught to teach me, let me profit by it‖ ( CC

74). Observing the Cratchit family‘s Christmas celebration, Scrooge learns that material wealth

pales before love: ―They were not a handsome family; they were not well dressed; their shoes

were far from being water-proof; their clothes were scanty; and Peter might have known, and

very likely did, the inside of a pawnbroker‘s. But they were happy, grateful, pleased with one

another, and contented with the time . . .‖ ( CC 84).

Scrooge‘s visit to Fred‘s Christmas celebration emphasizes the contrast between the

Cratchits, who exemplify a satisfaction with life‘s basic necessities and simple pleasures, and

Scrooge, who has wealth but without pleasure. Fred declares, ―His wealth is of no use to him.

He don‘t do any good with it. He don‘t make himself comfortable with it. He hasn‘t the

satisfaction of thinking—ha, ha, ha!—that he is ever going to benefit Us with it‖ ( CC 87). The

spirit‘s presentation of Want and Ignorance drives home the point: many suffer because of

Scrooge‘s selfish greed.

By the time the Ghost of Christmas Future appears, Scrooge has already decided on

redemption. He tells the spirit, ―. . . as I know your purpose is to do me good, and as I hope to

live to be another man from what I was, I am prepared to bear you company, and do it with a

thankful heart‖ ( CC 96). Forced to view the aftermath of his own death, as well as Tiny Tim‘s,

Scrooge entreats the spirit, ―Men‘s courses will foreshadow certain ends, to which, if persevered

in, they must lead . . . But if the courses be departed from, the ends will change. Say it is thus

with what you show me!‖ ( CC 108), and he asks, ―Why show me this, if I am past all hope?‖

( CC 108). His vows to ―honour Christmas in [his] heart‖ and to ―not shut out the lessons that

[the three spirits] teach‖ ( CC 110) seem to have no effect on the spirit, but Scrooge‘s passionate

entreaties cause him to awaken, thus giving him the opportunity to prove the truth of his vows.

In Stave Five, Scrooge claims to be ―quite a baby‖ ( CC 112), a declaration that signifies

his new beginning as a redeemed man. His further actions—generously sending the prize turkey

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to the Cratchits, making a donation to the portly gentleman, visiting Fred and his family, giving

Bob a raise, among others—begin his life as a citizen. Because one can only be a citizen in

community, it is significant that ―he [becomes] as good friend, as good a master, and as good a

man, as the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough, in the good old

world‖ ( CC 116). As Walder says, Scrooge finds ―a new awareness of the spiritual ties which

bind mankind together‖ (113-114), and he thus rejoins the family of humanity.

The most nefarious civilized men in David Copperfield , Uriah Heep and Littimer, are

imprisoned for their crimes and pretend to be rehabilitated by the prison system. However, as

throughout the novel, they are merely wearing masks to achieve their own evil ends. Claiming to

be redeemed, they remain depraved. Some critics posit David as the character redeemed in the

novel, and indeed, he can be considered, as Walder claims, to move ―away from the self-

regarding life, towards compassion and service to others‖ (151). Indeed, after all of his

experiences good and bad, David feels that he has reached an elevated plane, thanks to Agnes.

He tells her, ―Ever pointing upward, Agnes; ever leading me to something better; ever directing

me to higher things!‖ ( DC 722). But David develops from a child into a man during the course

of the novel, and much of his development is simple maturity. He learns much about himself

and other people, but calling him redeemed confuses terms.

Two characters are redeemed, although perhaps more according to society‘s standards

than Rousseau‘s. Both achieve redemption by leaving England and, like Jingle and Job Trotter,

going to a foreign land beyond society‘s judgmental pale and separated from the scenes of their

temptations. These characters are Little Em‘ly and Martha Endell.

Neither of these young women is absolutely corrupted like so many of the other civilized

characters, and much of the blame for their corruption falls on the society in which they live.

However, while not privy to the circumstances of Martha‘s seduction, we are aware that Emily‘s

arises from her desire to ―be a lady‖ ( DC 30) and to have access to money. She expresses this

desire while still a young girl, and her reasons for wanting wealth are unselfish; she says, ―If I

was ever to be a lady, I‘d give him [Dan Peggotty] a sky-blue coat with diamond buttons,

nankeen trousers, a red velvet waistcoat, a cocked hat, a large gold watch, a silver pipe, and a

box of money‖ ( DC 30). Yet her attention to such luxuries foreshadows her choice of Steerforth

over Ham, a choice leading her to ultimate corruption in the eyes of society.

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Martha, on the contrary, reveals no desire to rise above her station in Yarmouth. We do

not know how or why she is seduced. Regardless, she has been corrupted and further ruined by

life as a London prostitute. Martha is given the opportunity for redemptive action when David

and Dan Peggotty find her in London and enlist her help in finding Emily. She refuses to take

money for helping them: ―I could not do what I have promised, for money. . . I could not take it,

if I was starving. To give me money would be to take away your trust, to take away the object

that you have given me, to take away the only certain thing that saves me from the river‖ ( DC

585). Martha‘s selfless assistance redeems her not only in the eyes of Peggotty and David but

also in her own.

Both Martha and Emily find ultimate redemption through the love of Dan Peggotty, who

takes them to begin a new life in Australia. There, both women find a place where they can

make a positive contribution to society, a place where they become ―citizens.‖ On Peggotty‘s

return visit to England, he tells David how Emily helped the sick on their voyage to Australia:

― . . . theer was some poor folks aboard as had illness among ‘em, and she took care of them ; and

theer was the children in our company, and she took care of them ; and so she got to be busy, and

to be doing good, and that helped her‖ ( DC 743). He further relates how she has adjusted to her

life as an unmarried woman: ―. . . fond of going any distance fur to teach a child, or fur to tend a

sick person, or fur to do some kindness tow‘rds a young girl‘s wedding (and she‘s done a many,

but has never seen one); fondly loving of her uncle; patient; liked by young and old; sowt out by

all that has any trouble. That‘s Em‘ly!‖ ( DC 744). Martha finds her final redemption in

marriage to a farm laborer with whom she settles in the Bush ―fower hundred mile away from

any voices but their own and the singing birds‖ ( DC 744). Martha truly does return to nature, to

virtual solitude, and may be said to be a citizen within the society of her marriage.

A word needs to be said about other émigrés with redemptive possibilities in Australia,

the Micawber family. Even though most readers cannot help but be amused by Wilkins

Micawber, he displays a number of civilized traits—he is proud, pretentious, and by his own

admission, greedy. Like Martha and Emily, Micawber is given an opportunity to renounce the

civilized life and begin again in Australia, and in some regards he does repudiate the way of life

that corrupted him. Upon leaving England, he intimates that he is returning to nature; he says,

―The luxuries of the old country . . . we abandon. The denizens of the forest cannot, of course,

expect to participate in the refinements of the land of the Free‖ ( DC 689). While he does

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physical labor in the bush to eventually pay off all his debts, his amour propre continues intact as

he finally ―[feels] his position‖ ( DC 692). As district magistrate, he is at last in a station that

places him above ordinary citizens, a place to which he has pretended throughout. But his

having reached this goal precludes his being a genuine ―citizen‖ in the sense Rousseau intended,

despite his now making a positive contribution to society.

Pip Pirrip, on the other hand, does become Dickens‘s version of Rousseau‘s citizen. He

is, indeed, redeemed, becoming a more enlightened human being. He finds compassion within

himself; he recognizes the amour propre that, out of hand, led him to reject the two best

influences on his life; and he realizes that gentility has no necessary connection to social status or

wealth. But this process takes place over time; Pip evolves into the citizen, partially as the result

of disappointments in his life and the loss of his expectations. Much like Martin Chuzzlewit, Pip

is redeemed through hardship and the agency of friends.

Pip relates his story in retrospect. Barbara Hardy adds that he ―is not shown as an

unpleasant and obtuse snob, but always seen through the memory and sensibility of his

unsnobbish older self‖ ( Writer and His Work 85). Assuredly, the reader understands Pip‘s

ultimate change because he gives insightful self-criticism of his youthful behavior and attitudes

throughout their account. For example, after his introduction to Estella and during his increasing

dissatisfaction at the forge, Pip remarks,

It is not possible to know how far the influence of any amiable honest-hearted duty-doing

man flies out into the world; but it is very possible to know how it has touched one‘s self

in going by, and I know right well, that any good that intermixed itself with my

apprenticeship came of plain contented Joe, and not of restless aspiring discontented me.

( GE 107)

This insight, of course, only comes to Pip as an adult; as the child in the moment, his only

thoughts are of his shameful drudgery as a blacksmith‘s apprentice. At moments, however, the

young Pip actually does have thoughts and feelings that foreshadow his final redemption. In one

instance during his apprenticeship, he says,

And now, because my mind was not confused enough before, I complicated its

confusion fifty thousand-fold, by having states and seasons when I was clear that Biddy

was immeasurably better than Estella, and that the plain honest working life to which I

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was born, had nothing in it to be ashamed of, but offered me sufficient means of self-

respect and happiness. ( GE 131)

Likewise, in London when Joe makes his first visit, Pip discerns his ―simple dignity‖ ( GE 225);

after Joe has left, Pip says, ―As soon as I could recover myself sufficiently, I hurried out after

him and looked for him in the neighboring streets; but he was gone‖ ( GE 225). Pip is aware

throughout his time in London that he has betrayed his best friend; he admits, ―I lived in a state

of chronic uneasiness respecting my behaviour to Joe‖ ( GE 271).

Nevertheless, Pip‘s redemption proper begins when he learns that his benefactor is

Magwitch. Hardy comments that the shock of this discovery ―marks a moment of moral

discovery. It leads to the conversion of Pip, to his forced intimacy with Magwitch, which, after

all, becomes love‖ ( Writer and His Work 84). But first Pip fights the urge to desert Magwitch

and leave the country; he determines to take nothing more from him, and to get him out of

England as soon as possible. But as he listens to Magwitch‘s full story, he admits to feeling

―great pity‖ ( GE 350) for him. He continues to refuse money from Magwitch, but as time

passes, he considers that ―it would be a heartless fraud to take more money from [his] patron‖

( GE 379), rather than that it would contaminate himself.

Concurrently with Pip‘s softening toward Magwitch comes his forgiveness of Miss

Havisham. Being summoned to Satis House so that she can ask his forgiveness, Pip tells her, ―O

Miss Havisham . . . I can do it [grant her forgiveness] now. There have been sore mistakes; and

my life has been a blind and thankless one; and I want forgiveness and direction far too much, to

be bitter with you‖ ( GE 395). Soon thereafter, Pip suffers serious burns on his hands and arms as

he sacrificially saves Miss Havisham from the fire that ignites her wedding gown. Pip‘s

forgiveness of his childhood tormentor and his self-sacrifice are further signs of his redemptive

evolution.

He next displays a generosity toward Herbert Pocket by paying money for Herbert‘s

position with Clarriker‘s. Pip declares, ―I had the great satisfaction of concluding that

arrangement. It was the only good thing I had done, and the only completed thing I had done,

since I was first apprised of my great expectations‖ ( GE 413). As this transaction is undertaken

without Herbert‘s knowledge, Pip also displays unselfishness as well as generosity.

According to Grahame Smith, Chapter LIV, in which Pip‘s mind is ―wholly set on

Provis‘s safety‖ ( GE 430), marks ―the true end of Pip‘s enforced journey toward self-knowledge:

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his recognition of the human worth of this complete outcast of society as the wheel turns full

circle . . .‖ (180-81). When during the clandestine operation undertaken by Pip, Startop, and

Herbert to place Magwitch on a ship for the continent, Magwitch is gravely injured and captured,

Pip confesses,

. . . when I took my place by Magwitch‘s side, I felt that that was my place henceforth

while he lived.

For now, my repugnance to him had all melted away, and in the hunted, wounded,

shackled creature who held my hand in his, I only saw a man who had meant to be my

benefactor, and who had felt affectionately, gratefully, and generously, towards me with

great constancy through a series of years. I only saw in him a much better man than I had

been to Joe. ( GE 443)

Smith comments, ―His cleaving to Magwitch is the beginning of Pip‘s moral and spiritual

regeneration . . .‖ (180). Without regard for the deleterious effects such a relationship will have

on his social aspirations, Pip makes a decision to stand by Magwitch through his trial and certain

conviction. He tells his benefactor, ―Please God, I will be as true to you, as you have been to

me!‖ ( GE 444). The conviction of Magwitch also means forfeiture of his property to the Crown,

and in spite of the consternation of Jaggers and Wemmick at Pip‘s having ―let it slip through

[his] fingers‖ ( GE 445), Pip ―[resolves] . . . that [his] heart should never be sickened with the

hopeless task‖ ( GE 445) of trying to assert and prove his right to the money.

After Magwitch‘s death, Pip must perform one more act to achieve his redemption;

however, he becomes ill and suffers for days in feverish delirium. Upon regaining his senses, he

sees that the opportunity to perform the last deed has come to him, in ―the likeness of Joe‖ ( GE

459), who is nursing him back to health. In the days that follow, Pip ―[fancies] that [he is] little

Pip again . . . like a child in [Joe‘s] hands‖ ( GE 462). The memories of childhood that come to

Pip during Joe‘s visit signal his return to a more natural existence, like the one he had at the

forge. When Joe departs, Pip expresses the last actions he knows he must take:

What remained for me now, but to follow him to the dear old forge, and there to

have out my disclosure to him, and my penitent remonstrance with him, and there to

relieve my mind and heart of that reserved Secondly, which had begun as a vague

something lingering in my thoughts, and had formed into a settled purpose? ( GE 468)

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This second purpose is the proposal of marriage to Biddy. Admittedly, pride in Pip causes him

to believe she might still be interested in marrying him, but his desire to commit himself in this

way indicates the sincerity of his desire to return to the natural life. Walking toward the forge he

has ―a sense of leaving arrogance and untruthfulness further and further behind‖ ( GE 473), and

he indeed finds simple, genuine, unpretentious joy in the home of the now-married Joe and

Biddy. Pip‘s heartfelt but painful pleasure at their happiness and at receiving their forgiveness

completes his redemption.

Pip‘s process of becoming a citizen begins when he makes arrangements to pay his debts

and goes to Egypt to work with Herbert at Clarriker‘s. After years pass, he becomes a partner

with the firm; he ―[lives] happily with Herbert and his wife, and [lives] frugally, and [pays] his

debts, and [maintains] a constant correspondence with Biddy and Joe‖ ( GE 476). Pip has learned

to be contented with life‘s basic necessities, to live with others in a mutually beneficial way, to

have and show compassion, and to be satisfied with himself as he is, without the trappings of

gentility. Summing up Pip‘s redemption and the story‘s end, Andrew Sanders says, ―Whether or

not Pip finds happiness with Estella matters less than his awareness of what matters most to him,

his final expectations being based on surer foundations than were his earlier social and financial

ones‖ ( Resurrectionist 172-73).

While Pip is the main character, the narrator, and thus the thematic focus of the novel, he

is not the only character who finds redemption. Estella, having suffered hardships at the hand of

her abusive husband, Bentley Drummle, tells Pip ―very earnestly‖ ( GE 480) in the final

conversation of the novel,

―. . . you said to me . . . ‗God bless you, God forgive you!‘ And if you could say

that to me then, you will not hesitate to say that to me now—now, when suffering has

been stronger than all other teaching, and has taught me to understand what your heart

used to be. I have been bent and broken, but—I hope—into a better shape. Be as

considerate and good to me as you were, and tell me we are friends.‖ ( GE 480)

The impending destruction of Satis House, which Estella inherited at the death of Miss

Havisham, also symbolizes Estella‘s abandonment of the civilized life that her guardian imposed

upon her as a child. But Miss Havisham is also redeemed before she dies. In her last

conversation with Pip she repeats, ―What have I done! What have I done!‖ ( GE 396). She

expresses extreme sorrow for her perversion of Estella‘s emotions, and begs for Pip‘s

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forgiveness. She dies soon thereafter due to injuries sustained in the fire, but Pip does not learn

of her death until after Joe has nursed him back to health from his fever. Joe recounts the terms

of her will, which indicate even further her change of heart; she leaves most of her property to

Estella, but most notably, she leaves four thousand pounds to Matthew Pocket on Pip‘s report

that he and his son Herbert are ―generous, upright, open, and incapable of anything designing or

mean‖ (GE 358), and the only one of her relatives who does not lust shamelessly after her

fortune.

Of course, we must consider Magwitch, whose actions early in life place him

undoubtedly in the civilized category. Pip‘s childhood demonstration of compassion to him as a

convict creates a strong need for Magwitch to show his great appreciation. He tells Pip his story

of hard work and success as a ―sheep-farmer, stock-breeder, other trades besides, away in the

new world‖ ( GE 315), all accomplished so that he could express his gratitude to Pip. He says,

―. . . I swore that time, sure as ever I earned a guinea, that guinea should go to you. I

swore arterwards, sure as ever I spec‘lated and got rich, you should get rich. I lived

rough, that you should live smooth; I worked hard that you should be above work. What

odds, dear boy? Do I tell it fur you to feel a obligation? Not a bit. I tell it, fur you to

know as that there hunted dunghill dog wot you kep life in, got his head so high that he

could make a gentleman—and, Pip, you‘re him!‖ ( GE 317)

Perhaps it is pride in his accomplishment that draws Magwitch back to England to see ―his

gentleman,‖ but the love that develops between benefactor and beneficiary supersedes any pride

or amour propre that either might feel.

Prior to Magwitch‘s trial, Pip ―sometimes [derives] an impression . . . that he pondered

over the question whether he might have been a better man under better circumstances. But, he

never justified himself by a hint tending that way, or tried to bend the past out of its eternal

shape‖ ( GE 452). During the trial, Pip comments,

It happened on two or three occasions in my presence, that his desperate

reputation was alluded to by one or other of the people in attendance on him. A smile

crossed his face then, and he turned his eyes on me with a trustful look, as if he were

confident that I had seen some small redeeming touch in him, even so long ago as when I

was a little child. As to all the rest, he was humble and contrite, and I never knew him

complain. ( GE 452)

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The Judge‘s address at the sentencing of Magwitch and thirty one other criminals suggests that

Magwitch‘s earlier sentence of transportation was designed to give him ―a haven of rest and

repentance‖ ( GE 453)where he could live ―a peaceable and honest life‖ ( GE 453). Living

successfully as he did in the ―new world,‖ he achieved redemption in society‘s eyes, until, that is,

he returns to England. But in this return and in his sacrifice on behalf of one who had earlier

sacrificed for him, he finds redemption for himself; most importantly, that discovery makes him

a citizen in his own eyes.

Critics have called Our Mutual Friend the darkest of Dickens‘s novels owing to its

dismal imagery of dust, darkness, social decay, and death. Here, according to Sanders, ―criticism

is directed against a pervasive social demoralisation‖ ( Resurrectionist 173-74). Yet as in the

previous novels, individual characters escape such demoralization and find their way to a better,

more natural life. Sanders continues, ―Dickens nevertheless maintains his faith in human

survival through an exposition of the destinies of those major characters who, with due grace,

embody a redemptive process and manage to rise above a general dehumanisation‖

( Resurrectionist 173-74). Aside from Noddy Boffin‘s piously fraudulent corruption and

redemption, two other characters in the novel undergo obvious redemptive experiences, while

others display a significant change of heart.

The first and most obvious redemption takes place in Bella Wilfer, at first a greedy,

pretentious, and selfish young woman invited to live with the Boffins after her would-be

husband, John Harmon, is ostensibly drowned in the Thames. In Bella‘s first appearance, she

exclaims, ―. . . I love money, and want money—want it dreadfully. I hate to be poor, and we are

degradingly poor, offensively poor, miserably poor, beastly poor‖ ( OMF 45). Soon thereafter,

―This is another of the consequences of being poor! The idea of a girl with a really fine head of

hair, having to do it by one flat candle and a few inches of looking-glass!‖ ( OMF 51). Despite

being so obviously self-centered, once Bella moves into the Boffin household, she can honestly

confess to her father the progressive development of her inordinate greed:

―I am the most mercenary little wretch that ever lived in the world. . . When I was at

home, and only knew what it was to be poor, I grumbled, but didn‘t so much mind.

When I was a home expecting to be rich, I thought vaguely of all the great things I would

do. But when I had been disappointed of my splendid fortune, and came to see it from

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day to day in other hands, and to have before my eyes what it could really do, then I

became the mercenary little wretch I am.‖ ( OMF 316-17)

Bella‘s civilized characteristics do not go unnoticed by John Rokesmith/Harmon. He comments

to himself, ―So insolent, so trivial, so capricious, so mercenary, so careless, so hard to touch, so

hard to turn!‖ ( OMF 207).

Yet according to Hardy, Boffin‘s ―impersonated corruption acts as a test and a warning to

Bella Wilfer . . . The false conversion brings about the true one, and Bella rejects money and

chooses love‖ ( Writer and His Work 88). Schwarzbach adds, ―Bella is redeemed in part by

seeing Boffin‘s parody of her own beliefs acted out before her . . . But as Bella falls in love with

Harmon, the inconsistency and foolishness of her position is gradually revealed to her‖ (203-04).

As clarified in the final chapters of the book, Boffin‘s fraud is an intricate manipulative test for

Bella, and she passes to everyone‘s satisfaction. She is finally so appalled by Boffin‘s excessive

avarice and his deliberate cruelty to Rokesmith/Harmon that she takes her stand and leaves the

Boffin household. She tells Boffin, ―Your money has changed you to marble. You are a hard-

hearted Miser. You are worse than Dancer, worse than Hopkins, worse than Blackberry Jones,

worse than any of the wretches. And more! . . . you were wholly undeserving of the Gentleman

you have lost‖ ( OMF 586). She goes on, ―I would rather he thought well of me . . . though he

swept the street for bread, than that you did, though you splashed the mud upon him from the

wheels of a chariot of pure gold.—There!‖ ( OMF 586). Acting thus, Bella finds her redemption.

She soon marries Rokesmith/Harmon, perfectly contented in her relatively poor state of marital

bliss and ignorant of her husband‘s true identity. As devoted homemaker, wife, and eventually

mother, Bella also finds her place as citizen within her home and family. Once she has reached

this realization of life‘s highest priorities, she is ready to know John‘s actual identity and to

deserve the wealth that comes with it.

The other character, Eugene Wrayburn, starkly changes from an ―idle, debilitated, able,

and perverse gentleman‖ (Hardy, Writer and His Work 88) to one who, like Bella Wilfer, is

transformed by love. His misdirected, or un directed, life is captured by statements such as one

he makes to his friend Lightwood:

―You must take your friend as he is. You know what I am, my dear Mortimer.

You know how dreadfully susceptible I am to boredom. You know that when I became

enough of a man to find myself an embodied conundrum, I bored myself to the last

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degree by trying to find out what I meant. You know that at length I gave it up, and

declined to guess anymore. Then how can I possibly give you the answer that I have not

discovered?‖ ( OMF 283)

Because Eugene does not know himself, he is unable to recognize the feelings he develops for

Lizzie Hexam. He apparently believes that she is merely a plaything—like the society of the

Lammles, Veneerings, Podsnaps, et al., that can cure his boredom for the moment; he cannot

acknowledge even to himself that his emotions are in play.

Eugene displays his own amour propre in his early treatment of Lizzie, as well as in his

treatment of Bradley Headstone, Riah, and others he perceives to be socially beneath him. Riah,

however, wisely discerns Eugene‘s intentions regarding Lizzie, and explains to Fledgeby why he

sent her safely from London:

―Sir, it was only natural that she [Lizzie] should incline towards him [Eugene], for

he had many and great advantages. But he was not of her station, and to marry her was

not in his mind. Perils were closing round her, and the circle was fast darkening, when

I—being as you have said, sir, too old and broken to be suspected of any feeling for her

but a father‘s—stepped in, and counseled flight. I said, ‗My daughter, there are times of

moral danger when the hardest virtuous resolution to form is flight, and when the most

heroic bravery is flight.‘ . . .‖ ( OMF 426)

Lizzie‘s resistance to his advances makes her attractive to Eugene; it sharpens his prideful

determination to conquer her. He acts without compassion when dealing with the drunk Mr.

Dolls, attempting to find out her whereabouts.

Once finding Lizzie, however, the inner conflict he is experiencing becomes clear. She

refuses to yield to him; he leaves her, saying, ―A most ridiculous position this, to be found out

in! . . . Yet I have gained a wonderful power over her, too, let her be as much in earnest as she

will!‖ ( OMF 679). He continues, ―Now, if I married her . . .‖ ( OMF 679), and debates with

himself whether he would become bored with her. In a moment of natural and genuine feeling,

he thinks, ―. . . who would undertake to tell me that this was not a real sentiment on my part, won

out of me by her beauty and her worth, in spite of myself, and that I would not be true to her . . .‖

( OMF 679, 81). The subsequent attack by Bradley Headstone and his near-drowning become a

baptismal experience for Eugene and mark the true beginning of his redemption.

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Walder suggests that ―only those who have been brought near to death are finally allowed

the earthly version of resurrection, a change of heart, and so can find their peace‖ (204-05).

Eugene nearly dies as a result of his encounter with Headstone, but instead, he struggles for life

in order to protect Lizzie. He instructs Lightwood not to pursue the perpetrator of the attack

because of the damage it would do to her reputation: ―Don‘t think of avenging me,‖ he says;

―think only of hushing the story and protecting her‖ ( OMF 719). As time passes, Lightwood

intuits that Eugene wants to marry Lizzie so that his ―reparation may be complete‖ ( OMF 722).

The marriage is performed, and Eugene is a changed person. The following exchange between

him and Lizzie demonstrates his change of heart and his new self-knowledge:

―Heaven knows I love you dearly!‖

―And Heaven knows I prize it! Well. If I live, you‘ll find me out.‖

―I shall find out that my husband has a mine of purpose and energy, and will turn

it to the best account?‖

―I hope so, dearest Lizzie . . . I hope so. But I can‘t summon the vanity to think

so. How can I think so, looking back on such a trifling, wasted youth as mine! I humbly

hope it; but I daren‘t believe it. There is a sharp misgiving in my conscience that if I

were to live, I should disappoint your good opinion and my own—and that I ought to die,

my dear!‖ ( OMF 735).

Eugene does not die, and his redemptive process continues. He tells Lightwood of his

thoughts of taking Lizzie and beginning again in one of the colonies, but then he explains that he

would not do anything that would look as if he were ashamed of her. At Lightwood‘s question

of whether he would feel ―any slight coldness towards her on the part of—Society?‖ ( OMF 791),

Eugene replies, ―Now, my wife is something nearer to my heart, Mortimer, than Tippins is, and I

owe her a little more than I owe to Tippins, and I am rather prouder of her than I ever was of

Tippins. Therefore, I will fight it out to the last gasp, with her and for her, here in the open field‖

( OMF 791). Now disdaining the opinions and judgements of ―Society,‖ Eugene joins with other

natural and redeemed people in the novel, the Boffins and the Harmons, and we trust he becomes

a citizen among them.

Simultaneous with Eugene‘s redemptive acts, Mortimer Lightwood displays signs that he,

too, is moving away from the false values of Society toward the genuine life his friend has

found. When the suffering Eugene indicates his desire to marry Lizzie, Lightwood tells him,

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―This is the right course of a true man, Eugene. And I solemnly believe, with all my soul, that if

Providence should mercifully restore you to us, you will be blessed with a noble wife in the

preserver of your life, whom you will dearly love‖ ( OMF 723). In the final chapter of the novel,

he goes to a dinner at the Veneerings to ―take a look at Society‖ ( OMF 792). The marriage of

Eugene and Lizzie is the main topic of conversation, and the ―voice of society‖ speaks most

disdainfully and judgmentally of Eugene‘s actions, with the exception of Twemlow, who says,

―I say . . . if such feelings on the part of this gentleman induced this gentleman to

marry this lady, I think he is the greater gentleman for the action, and makes her the

greater lady. I beg to say, that when I use the word gentleman, I use it in the sense in

which the degree may be attained by any man. The feelings of a gentleman I hold sacred,

and I confess I am not comfortable when they are made the subject of sport or general

discussion.‖ ( OMF 796)

Twemlow‘s stand on the issue throws ―a canopy of wet blanket‖ ( OMF 797) over the party,

except for Lightwood, who gratefully and genially responds to the perspective that validates his

own.

Finally, the argument might be made that John Harmon, alias John Rokesmith and Julius

Handford, is a natural man. During the course of the novel, he demonstrates most of the natural

traits, although he participates in a pious fraud of his own, assuming the mask of poor John

Rokesmith in order to test his wife-to-be. Walder asserts, however, that Harmon is, instead of

natural or civilized, ―reborn‖ (205), and thus redeemed. Sanders writes of Harmon‘s

―resurrection‖ ( Resurrectionist 176-77), and Schwarzbach draws a comparison between Harmon

and Eugene: ―Thus, the near drowning of Harmon and Eugene also helps to save their lives by

showing them that by looking alive they had been immersed and drowning in the cash nexus, and

then by teaching them they must die to it to escape it‖ (206). Harmon, more than Eugene, has

seen the damage money can do and has renounced his inheritance as a result. However, through

the course of events and his successful test of Bella, the faithfulness of the Boffins, and his own

belief that ―if you were rich . . . you would have a great power of doing good to others‖ ( OMF

661), Harmon begins a new and enriched life. At last revealing his true identity to Bella, his

family takes their rightful place in Boffin‘s Bower to redeem the wealth that Harmon‘s father

had so abused and misused. In using the wealth for good, Harmon also brings full redemption

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for himself and Bella, and suggests that ―all the accumulated, wasteful and oppressive structures

of society can be transformed into a new and vital social system‖ (Schwarzbach 200-01).

Some critics say that Dickens believed in the perfectability of human beings; others say

he lost the belief, and still others claim that he never held such a belief. Whatever the truth,

redemption and reclamation are common themes in the novels of Dickens. The redeemed

characters are rarely if ever perfect; in several cases, they are redeemed as a result of painful

struggles that leave them scarred and suffering. But one point is unmistakable: Dickens

believed throughout his career that human beings are redeemable, if not perfectible, that they

have a choice to renounce the civilized life and become better people. Not all, not even many,

characters are redeemed in the novels, but enough to convince us, as Andrew Sanders says, ―of

the reality of the hope that the resurrected few may show the way to the many‖ ( Resurrectionist

197). And this, of course, was Dickens‘s hope for his world.

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CHAPTER SIX

GEOGRAPHICAL SIGNIFICANCE: THE COUNTRY VS. THE CITY

Rousseau believed that cities were the scenes of human corruption and that one could live

a fully natural life only in the country; Dickens expresses a similar view. He presents the city of

London realistically, in all its poverty, greed, social pretentiousness, religious hypocrisy, filth,

disease, and overcrowdedness. Even as he attacked the institutions responsible for its many

problems, Dickens‘s love for the city inspired his efforts to improve it and cure its ills.

Regardless, with only rare exceptions, he presents the country as welcome relief from the

troubles effected by civilization. Natural beauty, innocence among inhabitants, a general peace

and tranquility are portrayed consistently as country characteristics, and Dickens‘s characters

often ultimately find themselves in such settings.

Dickens loved London, drawing vigor from the activity and diversity of its streets.

Andrew Sanders claims, ―Dickens was not . . . merely inspired by London; he needed London,

whether physical or imagined, in order to write . . . Dickens worked with and from the stimuli

offered by a raucous, kaleidoscopic, urban community. He thought of crowds as energetic and

energizing‖ ( Spirit of the Age 82). Ackroyd believes similarly:

He said always that he needed the ―magic lantern‖ of London‘s streets to keep his

vision bright, and his immersion in the anonymous crowds of the city materially affected

the nature of his invention. He needed their energy and their motion, their anonymity and

their cohesion. It was as if a thousand different stories swirled around him . . . In turn his

novels are filled with the crowds of London, and are animated by the transience and the

spectacle of street life. ( Life and Times 48-49).

Barnard, too, propounds this view:

Dickens was a town-boy. . . Like most Londoners he takes pleasure in his

expertise in coping with the complexities of the place. . . He rejoices in and dwells on

misleading streets which lead to surprising destinations, and especially in blocked ways

and No Thoroughfares. In the early part of his career the reading is mainly conscious of

the infectious delight in the description . . . (13-14)

Imagining Dickens‘s intimate connection with city life, these critics often assert that he

cared little for rural settings and country life, and that his writing reflects this bias.

Schwarzbach, for instance, says that he was ―forced to borrow conventional language and

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imagery to describe the country, resulting in writing as boring as it is unimaginative,‖ and that

―The country scenes or provincial towns in these novels are rarely differentiated or invested with

any memorable qualities whatsoever . . .‖ (62). Donald Stone says that ―for the country-dweller‖

in Dickens, rural life is ―an enervating way of life that suggests the calm of death‖ (250-51), not

an appealing lifestyle for one flush with activity and energy. Sanders claims that ―Dickens‘s

style is commonly awkward, inexact, and flabby when he describes farmland, or grass or flowers

. . .‖ ( Spirit of the Age 82), and that he ―had a towndweller‘s preference for landscapes which

were tamed, inhabited, cultivated, and relatively close to urban comforts. He generally seems to

have felt ill at ease in landscapes that were either undomesticated or desolate‖ ( Spirit of the Age

80-81).

Contrary evidence, however, abounds. Schwarzbach writes of ―Dickens‘ deepest and

most cherished belief, in the ideal and idyllic nature of the years he had spent as a child in

Chatham and the Kent countryside‖ (173), and Ackroyd notes that he ―had always believed in

the efficacy of fresh air as a restorative‖ ( Life and Times 201). Strongest evidence comes from

Dickens himself, and various references among his early letters corroborate Ackroyd‘s claim. In

November 1840, Dickens wrote Daniel Maclise, ―I am dead (in spirit) with yesterday‘s work.

I‘ll call on you—alone in the carriage—at 2. For Heaven‘s sake let us range the fields and get

some freshness if its [ sic ] only fresh rain‖ ( Letters II.144). In February the following year, he

describes for Forster, ―I am walking round and round the garden this exquisite morning, trying to

think of the subjects for next No., and indulging in visions of the country. What a day for a

Greenwich Steamer!‖ ( Letters II.214). From America in March 1842, he expresses to Miss

Burdett-Coutts his need for a period of solitude, restoration, and recovery: ―. . . when I come

home I must take a cottage on Putney Heath, or Richmond Green, or some other wild and

desolate place, and talk to myself for a month or two, until I have sobered down a little, and am

quiet again‖ ( Letters III.146). In his early years of success, Dickens and his family spent much

time at Broadstairs, a seaside town. He explained his attraction for the resort to George

Macready:

. . . Broadstairs in the said county, was and is, and to the best of this Deponent‘s

judgment and belief will always be, the chosen resort and retreat of jaded intellect and

exhausted nature; being, as this Deponent further saith it is, far removed from the sights

and noises of the busy world, and filled with the delicious murmur and repose of the

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broad ocean; the said broad ocean being (as this Deponent further saith and fearlessly

asserteth) the finest feature (when you are off it) in the whole creation. ( Letters III.260)

And contrary to Sanders‘ assertion that Dickens felt uneasy in desolate or undomesticated

settings, he wrote Forster: ―I am exceedingly fond of wild and lonely scenery, and believe that I

have the faculty of being as much impressed by it as any man living‖ ( Letters III.200).

As Dickens aged, his earlier propensity for life in the city seems to have diminished.

Ackroyd says that around the time he was writing Little Dorrit , ―he seemed genuinely to dislike

London,‖ perhaps because it ―[represented] in monumental form the society that he had come to

despise‖ ( Life and Times 160-61). Even though Dickens did not trade city for country at this

point in his life (he merely left London for Paris), in his novels he presented the city in

increasingly negative terms—as a prison, a labyrinth, wilderness, a tomb, and finally, in Our

Mutual Friend , as a massive dust heap. Finally in 1860, as a result of his growing disinclination

to live in the city, Dickens moved his family to Gad‘s Hill Place, a country house in Kent, where

he lived for the last ten years of his life. Dickens displays his love, and even preference, for the

city in most of his novels; however, in his life and in his writings, he exhibits agreement with

Rousseau, that rural life is healthier, often happier, and most certainly, more natural.

The restorative property of the country is clearly present in Pickwick Papers , as Pickwick

himself exhibits renewed energy and enthusiasm each time he finds himself and his friends

―dashing along the open road, with the fresh clear air blowing in their faces, and gladdening their

very hearts within them‖ ( PP 412). The numerous visits to Manor Farm at Dingley Dell are

therapeutic for Pickwick, even though the Edenic nature of the place is sometimes spoiled by the

presence of Jingle or other discordant elements. Returning to the farm after the elopement of

Jingle and Rachael Wardle and her subsequent rescue, Pickwick only needs one night for his

well-being to be restored: ―A night of quiet and repose in the profound silence of Dingley Dell,

and an hour‘s breathing of its fresh and fragrant air on the ensuing morning, completely

recovered Mr. Pickwick from the effects of his late fatigue of body and anxiety of mind‖ ( PP

152). Tupman, however, betrayed by the eloping couple, does not so easily recover, and

intimates by letter that he might commit suicide. During a ―delightful walk‖ through ―thick

foliage . . . enlivened by the songs of the birds that perched upon the boughs,‖ with ―ivy and the

moss [creeping] in thick clusters over the old trees, and the soft green turf [overspreading] the

ground like a silken mat,‖ ―long vistas of stately oaks and elms trees,‖ and ―large herds of deer

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. . . cropping the fresh grass‖ ( PP 155), Pickwick comments, ―If this were the place to which all

who are troubled with our friend‘s complaint came, I fancy their old attachment to this world

would very soon return‖ ( PP 155).

Tracking Jingle to Bury St. Edmunds, the beauty around Pickwick again lifts his spirits.

―Clear skies, green fields, and sweet-smelling flowers,‖ ―orchards and corn-fields [ringing] with

the hum of labour,‖ ―corn, piled in graceful sheaves,‖ the reaper, and the women and children

helping in the fields ( PP 230)—all bring Pickwick back to his usual good spirits. We are told:

The influence of a scene like this, was not lost upon the well-regulated mind of

Mr. Pickwick. Intent upon the resolution he had formed, of exposing the real character of

the nefarious Jingle . . . , he sat at first taciturn and contemplative, brooding over the

means by which his purpose could be best attained. By degrees his attention grew more

and more attracted by the objects around him; and at last he derived as much enjoyment

from the ride, as if it had been undertaken for the pleasantest reason in the world. ( PP

230)

The minor character Mr. Raddle encapsulates the belief in nature‘s restorative powers when he

pronounces, ―The country for a wounded spirit, they say‖ ( PP 713). For Pickwick, this claim is

decidedly true.

After all, London is where the likes of the greedy, compassionless, and pretentious

Dodson and Fogg are found, as well as the hypocritical Reverend Stiggins. When the club

dissolves at the end of the novel, he settles in Dulwich, ―situated in one of the most pleasant

spots near London‖ ( PP 871), but not in the city. His choice is not surprising, for much earlier in

the novel when he visits Manor Farm for the first time, he ruminates:

―Pleasant, pleasant country . . . Who could live to gaze from day to day on bricks

and slates, who had once felt the influence of a scene like this? Who could continue to

exist, where there are no cows but the cows on the chimney-pots; nothing redolent of Pan

but pan-tiles; no crop but stone crop? Who could bear to drag out life in such a spot?

Who I ask could endure it?‖ and, having cross-examined solitude after the most approved

precedents, at considerable length, Mr. Pickwick thrust his head out of the lattice, and

looked around him. ( PP 93)

His contemplation of the ―rich, sweet smell of the hayricks . . . the hundred perfumes of the little

flower-garden beneath . . . the deep-green meadows . . . the morning dew . . . and the birds

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[singing] as if every sparkling drop were a fountain of inspiration to them‖ sends Pickwick into

―an enchanting and delicious reverie‖ ( PP 93-94). Albeit a bit dramatic, Dickens‘s extensive

descriptions of the splendor of the country‘s seasonal changes affirm that he enjoyed the beauty

of nature found in rural England.

Oliver Twist offers the same perspective, except that the corruptive character of the city is

more dominant. Oliver‘s first impressions of London set the stage for his subsequent experience

as a member of Fagin‘s gang:

A dirtier or more wretched place he had never seen. The street was very narrow and

muddy, and the air was impregnated with filthy odours. There were a good many small

shops; but the only stock in trade appeared to be heaps of children, who, even at that time

of night, were crawling in and out at the doors, or screaming from the inside. The sole

places that seemed to prosper amid the general blight of the place, were the public-

houses; and in them, the lowest orders of the Irish were wrangling with might and main.

Covered ways and yards, which here and there diverged from the main street, disclosed

little knots of houses, where drunken men and women were positively wallowing in the

filth . . . ( OT 49)

Market day is equally unappealing:

The ground was covered, nearly ankle-deep, with filth and mire; and a thick steam,

perpetually rising from the reeking bodies of the cattle, and mingling with the fog, which

seemed to rest upon the chimney-tops, hung heavily above . . . Countrymen, butchers,

drovers, hawkers, boys, thieves, idlers, and vagabonds of every low grade, were mingled

together in a dense mass . . . the crowding, pushing, driving, beating, whooping, and

yelling; the hideous and discordant din that resounded from every corner of the market;

and the unwashed, unshaven, squalid, and dirty figures constantly running to and fro . . .

rendered it a stunning and bewildering scene . . . ( OT 136)

The overcrowding of the city creates many of the conditions of dirt and disease that Dickens

campaigned against, and it creates opportunity for Fagin and his boys, Sikes, Monks, and others,

to lead and be successful in their lives of crime. Oliver‘s first impulse is to run away, but that, of

course, is impossible.

Due to fortuitous circumstances, Oliver finds himself in the country, albeit injured and in

a dire situation after accompanying Bill Sikes on a housebreaking job. He is rescued and nursed

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back to health by the Maylie women; Rose tells him, ―We are going into the country; and my

aunt intends that you shall accompany us. The quiet place, the pure air, and all the pleasures and

beauties of spring, will restore you in a few days‖ ( OT 205). These words prove prophetic for

Oliver, and again, Dickens contrasts the country‘s wholesomeness with the unhealthiness of the

city:

Who can describe the pleasure and delight, the peace of mind and soft tranquility,

the sickly boy felt in the balmy air, and among the green hills and rich woods, of an

inland village! Who can tell how scenes of peace and quietude sink into the minds of

pain-worn dwellers in close and noisy places, and carry their own freshness, deep into

their jaded hearts! ( OT 210)

The remainder of this passage may suggest to some Donald Stone‘s linking of the calm of the

country analogously with death:

Men who have lived in crowded, pent-up streets, through lives of toil: and never wished

for change; men, to whom custom has indeed been second nature, and who have come

almost to love each brick and stone that formed the narrow boundaries of their daily

walks; even they, with the hand of death upon them, have been known to yearn at last for

one short glimpse of Nature‘s face; and carried, far from the scenes of their old pains and

pleasures, have seemed to pass at once into a new state of being; and crawling forth, from

day to day, to some green sunny spot, have had such memories wakened up within them

by the mere sight of sky, and hill, and plain, and glistening water, that a foretaste of

heaven itself has soothed their quick decline, and they have sunk into their tombs as

peacefully as the sun: whose setting they watched from their lonely chamber window but

a few hours before: faded from their dim and feeble sight! ( OT 210)

Of course, some Dickens characters go to the country in order to die peacefully; Oliver is not one

of them. He, too, ―[seems] to enter on a new existence there‖ ( OT 210), but it is an existence of

learning, church-going, enjoying the company of Mrs. Maylie and Rose, and ―roaming the fields,

and plundering the hedges, far and wide, for nosegays of wild flowers‖ ( OT 212) and working in

the garden—a life for Oliver of ―true felicity‖ ( OT 212), and of course, renewed health. Later in

the novel, Oliver hopes in vain for the same salubrious outcome for his friend little Dick. He

speaks to Rose about sending ―him to some quiet country place where he may grow strong and

well‖ ( OT 348).

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In the neat tying-up of loose ends in the conclusion, Dickens gathers Oliver‘s friends and

benefactors, the three Maylies, Mr. Brownlow, and Mrs. Bedwin, to a country village where they

are ―linked together [in] a little society, whose condition approached as nearly to one of perfect

happiness as can ever be known in this changing world‖ ( OT 365). Even Mr. Losberne, the

doctor, retires and relocates near them, enjoying his country life of ―gardening, planting, fishing,

carpentering, and various other pursuits of a similar kind‖ ( OT 366). But most importantly here,

this country life is one in which Mr. Brownlow can cultivate in Oliver those traits that Rousseau

termed natural, including the recognition of, appreciation for, and satisfaction with the true gift

of life—love—and compassion. Dickens draws near to the end of the novel with these words:

―. . . and without strong affection, and humanity of heart, and gratitude to that Being whose code

is Mercy, and whose great attribute is Benevolence to all things that breathe, true happiness can

never be attained‖ ( OT 368).

In Nicholas Nickleby , the difference between country and city is most vividly shown in

the contrast between the father of Nicholas and Kate and their uncle Ralph. The late Nicholas

the elder ―[shunned] the great world and [attached] himself to the quiet routine of a country life‖

( NN 18); Ralph, on the other hand, is the quintessential man of the city—civilized and corrupted.

Since Nicholas the elder is already dead when the story begins, we do not know whether or not

he was a natural man; however, both of his children might be considered natural, and we know

they did not inherit those tendencies from their mother. It is she who encourages their father to

―speculate‖ ( NN 20) with their little remaining capital, and they lose everything. After the death

of the elder Nicholas, the family must leave the country and find their way in the city—and

there, of course, they come face to face with corruption in various forms.

The contrast between country and city is seen in other ways as well. Just as Pickwick‘s

spirits lift when he goes from city to country, Nicholas and Smike notice a positive change as

they leave London for Portsmouth:

It was by this time within an hour of noon, and although a dense vapour still

enveloped the city they had left as if the very breath of its busy people hung over their

schemes of gain and profit and found greater attraction there than in the quiet region

above, in the open country it was clear and fair . . . A broad fine honest sun lighted up the

green pastures and dimpled water with the semblance of summer, while it left the

travelers all the invigorating freshness of that early time of year. The ground seemed

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elastic under their feet; the sheep-bells were music to their ears; and exhilarated by

exercise, and stimulated by hope, they pushed onward with the strength of lions. ( NN

268-69)

As in Oliver Twist , the country is a retreat and restorative environment for those with health

problems. The Cheerybles urge Tim Linkinwater repeatedly to ―go into the country now and

then, and sleep in the fresh air, besides, two or three times a-week‖ so that he will ―grow young

again in time‖ ( NN 433). When Smike becomes ill with consumption after living in the city for

some time, the doctor tells Nicholas ―that the last chance and hope of his life [depends] on his

being instantly removed from London‖ ( NN 687). Brother Charles tells Nicholas, ―This poor

chap will soon get better—very soon get better . . . ―( NN 688). With the crowded conditions in

London, the rapid spread of disease, the ―dense vapour‖ ( NN 268) that hangs over the city, it is

logical to believe that a place of relative solitude and fresh air would be beneficial to one who

suffers from illness; unfortunately, this is not enough for Smike; again, the country becomes a

place of death.

As in the two previous novels, characters in Nicholas Nickleby find a happiness and

contentment in the country unknown elsewhere. Miss LaCreevy reports on her visit to her

brother‘s rural home:

―. . . what do you think of his insisting on taking me down all the way into the country to

his own house (quite a sumptuous place, Mr. Noggs, with a large garden and I don‘t

know how many fields, and a man in livery waiting at table, and cows and horses and

pigs and I don‘t know what besides), and making me stay a whole month, and pressing

me to stop there all my life—yes, all my life—and so did his wife, and so did the

children—and there were four of them, and one, the eldest girl of all, they—they had

named her after me eight good years before, they had indeed. I never was so happy; in all

my life I never was!‖ ( NN 386)

Finding great happiness amid the love of family in a rural setting, Miss LaCreevy shows her own

natural character. The Cheerybles allow the Nicklebys to move into a cottage they own at Bow,

and there they, too, find pleasure and contentment in the company of each other and the simple

life, with ―all the peace and cheerfulness of home restored, with such new zest imparted to every

frugal pleasure, and such delight to every hour of meeting. . . .‖ ( NN 436). When happy couples

and marriages abound in the last chapter in the novel, Nicholas, now ―a rich and prosperous

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merchant‖ ( NN 775), buys his father‘s house in Devonshire. As in Oliver Twist , a happy and

(almost) natural society is formed, with Nicholas and Madeline, Kate and Frank, Mrs. Nickleby,

and Newman Noggs all living ―within a stone‘s-throw‖ ( NN 777) of each other. Although

Nicholas and Frank must travel to London on occasion, they are rendered safe from corruption

by the natural life to which they return.

However, one character in the novel likely natural believes that city life is preferable to

life in the country. Tim Linkinwater, pressed by his employers to take therapeutic breaks in the

country, asserts strongly each time that he will not leave London. He speaks of a crippled child

who lives across from him, with whom he has his own ―little society.‖ The hyacinths

blossoming in blacking-bottles and the spare words spoken between the two are enough to form

a bond for Tim that he refuses to break, even knowing that the child is dying. Nicholas tells him,

―It is a good heart . . . that disentangles itself from the close avocations of every day, to heed

such things‖ ( NN 488). Tim brings his own nature into the dismal city setting, denying the

importance of geographical setting. Regardless, the boy dies, and the idea that one can have all

he or she needs in the city exists as a painful anomaly in Dickens in this instance.

The city-versus-country theme is not prominent in Martin Chuzzlewit. Some critics

believe that the American chapters replace the country episodes in the other novels. However,

because Dickens presents American society as already corrupted, this equation is invalid. The

―Eden‖ of America is dank, dark, and disease-ridden, rather than fresh, beautiful, and healthful

as is the English countryside. This Eden does represent death—or nearly—just as Donald Stone

claims for Dickens‘s country, but it is a death in feverish delirium rather than in peace. Martin

does find natural characteristics within himself during his unhappy time there, but he also returns

to England saddened by what he has seen and learned in America.

Nevertheless, ―country,‖ as discussed thus far, is presented in Martin Chuzzlewit, perhaps

not as prominently. John Westlock, for instance, tells the sick Lewsome, ―You have had a hard

bout of it. But country air, and change of scene . . . will make another man of you!‖ ( MC 466).

The beauties of nature and seasonal changes are again portrayed in considerable, if predictable,

detail:

The wet grass sparkled in the light . . . the stream which had been dull and sullen all day

long, broke out into a cheerful smile; the birds began to chirp and twitter on the naked

boughs . . .

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. . . On the motionless branches of some trees, autumn berries hung like clusters of coral

beads, as in those fabled orchards where the fruits were jewels . . . the sunbeams struck

out paths of deeper gold . . . ( MC 6-7)

This Edenic portrayal prepares the reader for the introduction not only of the Blue Dragon, the

―centre of pre-lapsarian humanity‖ (Barnard 43-44), but also of Seth Pecksniff, a reminder that a

serpent inhabits even the most beautiful garden.

In another such passage, the nature surrounding the village, even in winter, is a fitting

setting for natural Tom Pinch:

This was the glad commencement of a bracing day in early winter, such as may put the

languid summer season . . . to the blush, and shame the spring for being sometimes cold

by halves. The sheep-bells rang as clearly in the vigorous air, as if they felt its

wholesome influence like living creatures; the trees, in lieu of leaves or blossoms, shed

upon the ground a frosty rime that sparkled as it fell, and might have been the dust of

diamonds—so it was, to Tom. From cottage chimneys, smoke went streaming up high,

high, as if the earth had lost its grossness, being so fair, and must not be oppressed by

heavy vapour. The crust of ice on the else rippling brook, was so transparent and so thin

in texture, that the lively water might, of its own free will, have stopped—in Tom‘s glad

mind it had—to look upon the lovely morning. And lest the sun should break this charm

too eagerly, there moved between him and the ground a mist like that which waits upon

the moon on summer nights—the very same to Tom—and wooed him to dissolve it

gently. ( MC 64)

As Tom continues amidst the beauty, his appreciation for and intimate connection with nature is

emphasized: ―And now the morning grew so fair, and all things were so wide awake and gay,

that the sun seeming to say—Tom had no doubt he said—‗I can‘t stand it any longer: I must have

a look,‘ streamed out in radiant majesty‖ ( MC 65). Tom‘s walk is filled with ―all kinds of things

[that] occurred to keep him happy‖ ( MC 64), and he is ―full of pleasant thoughts and cheerful

influences‖ ( MC 65), some from nature, and some from the simple country folk who greet him

along the way.

Tom‘s comfort in the country and in nature is accentuated even further when he sets out

for London. Even the coach foreshadows for Tom the corruption of the city:

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The coach was none of your steady-going, yokel coaches, but a swaggering, rakish,

dissipated, London coach; up all night, and lying by all day, and leading a devil of a life.

It cared no more for Salisbury than if it had been a hamlet. It rattled noisily through the

best streets, defied the Cathedral, took the worse corners sharpest, went cutting in

everywhere, making everything get out of its way; and spun along the open country-road,

blowing a lively defiance out of its key-bugle, as its last glad parting legacy. ( MC 557-

558)

Once in London, Tom‘s fearful expectations of ―preparers of cannibalistic pastry,‖ ―ring-

droppers, pea and thimble-riggers, duffers, touters, [and] any of those bloodless sharpers, who

are, perhaps, a little better known to the Police‖ ( MC 577) prove unfounded; however, in the

maze of London streets, he is often lost. Outside of his country comfort zone, Tom has difficulty

finding his way, but John Westlock and his sister Ruth, also a natural character, provide him with

a safe haven, and he thrives.

Once again, the final settling place of choice in Martin Chuzzlewit is the country. John

Westlock, engaged to marry Ruth, secures ―a capital opportunity of establishing himself in his

old profession in the country‖ ( MC 815), a place that will also ―afford occupation to Tom, and

enable them to live together in the easiest manner . . . and to be as happy as the day was long‖

( MC 815). And of course, Westlock‘s prophecy of bliss comes true. Tom‘s life is ―tranquil,

calm, and happy‖ ( MC 831), even if Martin and Mary also live nearby; memories of his love for

Mary are now ―pleasant, softened, whispering‖ ( MC 831), and the love their little girl shows

Tom brings him great joy. In addition, he can once again play the organ, an opportunity that

completes his happiness and gives him his nearly perfect country life.

Ebenezer Scrooge, in A Christmas Carol , must revisit his childhood in order to achieve

redemption; in doing so, he returns to a simpler, more innocent time and place—in the country.

The Ghost of Christmas Past takes Scrooge to ―an open country road, with fields on either hand‖

( CC 56). Scrooge, we are told,

[recognizes] every gate, and post, and tree; until a little market-town appeared in the

distance, with its bridge, its church, and winding river. Some shaggy ponies now were

seen trotting towards them with boys upon their backs, who called to other boys in

country gigs and carts, driven by farmers. All these boys were in great spirits, and

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shouted to each other, until the broad fields were so full of merry music, that the crisp air

laughed to hear it. ( CC 57).

He ―[names] them everyone,‖ ―[is] rejoiced beyond all bounds to see them,‖ ―his heart [leaps] up

as they [go] past,‖ and he is ―filled with gladness when he [hears] them give each other Merry

Christmas‖ ( CC 57). Scrooge re-experiences his childhood joy and subsequently re-experiences

his childhood pain, necessary for him both to remember his natural self and to understand his

civilized one.

Scrooge‘s civilized life is rooted in the city, a place of ―busy thoroughfares . . . where

shadowy passengers [pass] and [repass]; where shadowy carts and coaches [battle] for the way,‖

filled with ―strife and tumult‖ ( CC 61). It is the place of business, of ‘Change and merchants,

money and greed. And for Scrooge, it is finally a place, shown to him by the Ghost of Christmas

Future, of death and degradation:

They left the busy scene, and went into an obscure part of the town, where

Scrooge had never penetrated before although he recognised its situation, and its bad

repute. The ways were foul and narrow; the shops and houses wretched; the people half-

naked, drunken, slipshod, ugly. Alleys and archways, like so many cesspools, disgorged

their offences of smell, and dirt, and life, upon the straggling streets; and the whole

quarter reeked with crime, with filth, and misery. ( CC 98)

It is here that Scrooge observes the charwoman, the laundress, and the undertaker‘s man selling

his possessions after his death.

Scrooge does allow himself to be reclaimed, of course, but here we see a departure from

Dickens‘s frequently employed ending. Unlike Pickwick, Oliver, Mr. Brownlow, the Maylies,

the Nicklebys, the Chuzzlewits, the Westlocks, and Tom Pinch, Scrooge does not move to the

country to live out his days. Scrooge attains his redemption and is converted into ―as good a

man, as the good old city [knows]‖ ( CC 116). He becomes a citizen in the true sense of

Rousseau‘s word—living as a compassionate, unselfish, and contributing member of society,

within society.

In David Copperfield we find perhaps the most Rousseauean expression of the power of

nature and the country to effect redemption. David‘s final three-year foray into rural Switzerland

is very much like episodes in Rousseau‘s Julie , where the protagonist finds healing for his

corrupted soul in a similar village. But before David‘s flight to the continent, Dickens includes

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other indications of the city/civilized-country/natural dichotomy, even if minor and generally

serving other purposes.

For instance, Dickens uses rural nature to illustrate David‘s blind ardor for Dora

Spenlow. As David, Mr. Spenlow, Dora, and others ride toward the site of Dora‘s birthday

party, Spenlow asks David ―what [he thinks] of the prospect‖ ( DC 412). David responds,

I said it was delightful, and I dare say it was, but it was all Dora to me. The sun shone

Dora, and the birds sang Dora. The south wind blow Dora, and the wildflowers in the

hedges were all Doras, to a bud. . .

I don‘t know how long we were going, and to this hour I know as little where we

went. . . It was a green spot, on a hill, carpeted with soft turf. There were shady trees,

and heather, and, as far as the eye could see, a rich landscape. ( DC 412)

After their marriage, Dora‘s presence makes David more aware of the beauty around him, which

he sees as a reflection of the rapid passage of time:

Weeks, months, seasons, pass along. They seem little more than a summer day

and a winter evening. Now, the Common where I walk with Dora is all in bloom, a field

of bright gold; and now the unseen heather lies in mounds and bunches underneath a

covering of snow. In a breath, the river that flows through our Sunday walks is sparkling

in the summer sun, is ruffled by the winter wind, or thickened with drifting heaps of ice.

Faster than ever river ran towards the sea, it flashes, darkens, and rolls away. ( DC 534)

Still, however, David sees nature merely as the background for his marriage and his love for

Dora.

The city, as usual, is the scene of corruption. Like Tom Pinch when he first arrives in

London, Betsey Trotwood is distrustful and suspicious of everything she finds there. Upon

eating a roast fowl considered by David to be ―excellent,‖ she comments, ―I suppose this

unfortunate fowl was born and brought up in a cellar . . . and never took the air except on a

hackney coach-stand. I hope the steak may be beef, but I don‘t believe it. Nothing‘s genuine in

the place, in my opinion, but the dirt‖ ( DC 295). She also ―[has] this other general opinion in

reference to London, that every man she [sees is] a pickpocket‖ ( DC 297). But the most

convincing evidence of the city as a place of corruption is found in the chapters in which Dan

Peggotty and David enlist Martha‘s help in finding Emily. Martha wildly cries out to the

Thames,

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―I know it‘s like me! . . . I know that I belong to it. I know that it‘s the natural

company of such as I am! It comes from country places, where there was once no harm

in it—and it creeps through the dismal streets, defiled and miserable—and it goes away,

like my life, to a great sea, that is always troubled—and I feel that I must go with it!‖

( DC 581)

Martha is describing herself, having come from the ―country place‖ of Yarmouth, where ―there

was once no harm‖ in her; now she is creeping through the ―dismal streets‖ as a prostitute,

―defiled and miserable‖, and she is lost among the ―great sea‖ of others in the city who are like

her. She leads Mr. Peggotty and David through an ―oppressive, sad, and solitary‖ neighborhood,

where

coarse grass and rank weeks straggled over all the marshy land in the vicinity. In one

part, carcases of houses, inauspiciously begun and never finished, rotted away. In

another, the ground was cumbered with rusty iron monsters of steamboilers, wheels,

cranks, pipes, furnaces, paddles, anchors, diving-bells, windmill-sails, and I know not

what strange objects, accumulated by some speculator, and grovelling in the dust . . .

Slimy gaps and causeways, winding among old wooden piles, with a sickly substance

clinging to the latter, like green hair, and the rags of last year‘s handbills offering rewards

for drowned men fluttering above high-watermark, led down through the ooze and slush

to the ebb-tide. There was a story that one of the pits dug for the dead in the time of the

Great Plague was hereabout; and a blighting influence seemed to have proceeded from it

over the whole place. Or else it looked as if it had gradually decomposed into that

nightmare condition, out of the overflowing of the polluted stream. ( DC 579-80)

Martha equates herself with ―the refuse it [has] cast out, and left to corruption and decay‖ ( DC

580). A victim of a civilized and judgmental society, Martha, as well as Emily, considers herself

beyond redemption.

But while the city can be a death-dealing entity, the country is portrayed in the end of the

novel as life-giving. After Dora‘s death, David finds his salvation in the solitude of the Swiss

Alps. Sounding much like a Romantic poet, he comments early on, ―If those awful solitudes had

spoken to my heart, I did not know it. I had found sublimity and wonder in the dread heights and

precipices, in the roaring torrents, and the wastes of ice and snow; but as yet, they had taught me

nothing else‖ ( DC 697). However, he goes on to say:

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I came, one evening before sunset, down into a valley, where I was to rest. In the

course of my descent to it, by the winding track along the mountain-side, from which I

saw it shining far below, I think some long-unwonted sense of beauty and tranquillity,

some softening influence awakened by its peace, moved faintly in my breast. I remember

pausing once, with a kind of sorrow that was not all oppressive, not quite despairing. I

remember almost hoping that some better change was possible within me. ( DC 697)

He comments on the ―richly green‖ mountain bases, the ―forests of dark fir,‖ ―range upon range

of craggy steeps, grey rock, bright ice, and smooth verdure-specks of pasture,‖ and the ―sound of

distant singing—shepherd voices . . .‖ ( DC 697-98). As he observes and listens, he remarks,

―All at once, in this serenity, great Nature spoke to me; and soothed me to lay down my weary

head upon the grass, and weep as I had not wept yet, since Dora died!‖ ( DC 698). With the

passing of time and a letter of encouragement from Agnes, David says, ―When I heard the voices

die away, and saw the quiet evening cloud grow dim, and all the colours in the valley fade, and

the golden snow upon the mountain-tops become a remote part of the pale night sky, yet felt that

the night was passing from my mind, and all its shadows clearing . . .‖ ( DC 698).

Much like St. Preux in Rousseau‘s Julie , David makes friends in the Swiss valley, and

says, ―When I left it, before the winter set in, for Geneva, and came back in the spring, their

cordial greetings had a homely sound to me, although they were not conveyed in English words‖

( DC 699). The ―homely‖ and simple life of the rural Swiss brings David further back to himself;

he is able to write again, and his health, ―severely impaired when [he] left England‖ ( DC 699), is

greatly improved. He speaks of ―the change that gradually worked in me, when I tried to get a

better understanding of myself and be a better man‖ ( DC 700), a change brought on by solitude

and by nature, a change that leads him home to Canterbury, Agnes, and his true destiny. If

Canterbury is not a huge metropolis like London, it is also not ―country‖; but David finds his life

as a mature adult—perhaps a citizen—within the bounds of the town, a Dickensian trend that

began in A Christmas Carol.

In the beginning of Great Expectations , Pip‘s ―country‖ is limited to the forge, the

churchyard, and the nearby marshes. His world is small, and even though he enjoys the

company of Joe and Biddy, both natural, he also suffers the abuse of Mrs. Joe, Uncle

Pumblechook, and their circle of friends. The rural environment of Pip‘s childhood is not the

pastoral ideal that Oliver enjoys, nor is it completely immune from the corruption of the city. In

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fact, there is little distinction between country and city, and even the country village near the

forge is half natural and half civilized. Pip reveals, ―. . . I loitered into the country on Miss

Havisham‘s side of town—which was not Joe‘s side . . .‖ ( GE 231). Schwarzbach claims,

Together with the neighboring town, [the village] is presented as a complete microcosm

of country society, with a church, various merchants, a claque of local dignitaries, and

most importantly, the prison hulks and Satis House. Clearly, then Pip‘s childhood is not

spent in an idyllic fairyland, but in a place where all of the unpleasant and corrupting

institutions and influences of society are already present. (187)

This blurring of city/country boundaries is indicative of civilization‘s encroachment on the

natural world, a contemporary reality that Dickens also portrays in Bleak House and Hard Times

(Schwarzbach 146-47).

The city proper, that is, London, is the scene of Pip‘s further ―civilization‖ and

corruption. Like other characters before him, his first impressions are not favorable. He says,

―We Britons had at that time particularly settled that it was treasonable to doubt our having and

our being the best of everything: otherwise, while I was scared by the immensity of London, I

think I might have had some faint doubts whether it was not rather ugly, crooked, narrow, and

dirty‖ ( GE 161). Taking ―a turn in the air,‖ Pip goes to Smithfield, which he describes as a

―shameful place, being all asmear with filth and fat and blood and foam‖ ( GE 163). He even

presents St. Paul‘s somewhat negatively, as ―the great black dome . . . bulging at me from behind

a grim stone building which a bystander said was Newgate Prison‖ ( GE 163-64). But he is also

disappointed in the location of his first lodgings because, as Wemmick says, ―the retirement

reminds [him] of the country‖ ( GE 172). At this point, Pip is caught between two unappealing

options; neither the country nor the city, even with the great expectations he is promised there,

seems satisfactory. But more significant than Pip‘s initial aversion to London is his

accommodation to the life that he finds there. Surrendering willingly to the corruptive forces of

civilization, Pip finds himself debt-ridden and dissipated, but not beyond redemption.

The country plays a role in Pip‘s recovery from serious illness, as well as his redemption,

as Joe takes him on a carriage ride in the open air:

And Joe got in beside me, and we drove away together into the country, where the

rich summer growth was already on the trees and on the grass, and sweet summer scents

filled all the air. The day happened to be Sunday, and when I looked on the loveliness

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around me, and thought how it had grown and changed, and how the little wild flowers

had been forming, and the voices of the birds had been strengthening, by day and by

night, under the sun and under the stars, while poor I lay burning and tossing on my bed,

the mere remembrance of having burned and tossed there, came like a check upon my

peace. But, when I heard the Sunday bells, and looked around a little more upon the

outspread beauty, I felt that I was not nearly thankful enough . . . ( GE 463)

Pip has not previously described the beauty of his surroundings; this first description

demonstrates new vision on his part—not only of the splendor of nature, but of the real gifts he

has been given. He again demonstrates this change as he returns to the forge, a redeemed man;

he notes:

The June weather was delicious. The sky was blue, the larks were soaring high

over the green corn, I thought all that countryside more beautiful and peaceful by far than

I had ever known it to be yet. Many pleasant pictures of the life that I would lead there,

and of the change for the better that would come over my character when I had a guiding

spirit at my side whose simple faith and clear home-wisdom I had proved, beguiled my

way. They awakened a tender emotion in me; for, my heart was softened by my return,

and such a change had come to pass, that I felt like one who was toiling home barefoot

from distant travel, and whose wanderings had lasted many years. ( GE 473)

Although Pip‘s hopes for the ―guiding spirit‖ are disappointed, the change in him is obvious. His

plans of returning to live in the country are thwarted by the marriage of Joe and Biddy, and thus

he returns to the civilized world, albeit an older, wiser citizen.

In Great Expectations two methods of escaping the corruption of the city are

demonstrated. One method is exhibited by Wemmick, who, according to Mark Spilka,

. . . wears two faces expressing the split between domestic and urban culture: one face,

hard and wooden, with a postal slit for a mouth, he wears in the city; the other face,

genial and relaxed, humane and sensitive, he wears in his home, which he literally calls

his castle . . . One face is designed to meet the corrupt dehumanizing commercialization

of city life; the other the beneficent and genial aspects of domestic life, to which narrow

pound the now two-faced Benevolent Man of the eighteenth century has obviously

retreated, as indeed he had often retreated in his own time—after long exposure to

worldly ills—to more pastoral environs. (166)

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If his ―castle‖ is not actually in the country, it serves the same purpose for Wemmick as a rural

retreat, although as Schwarzbach reminds us, ―Wemmick‘s Castle is made possible only by the

business connections with Newgate which he tries to keep distant from it, and by the ‗portable

property‘ he acquires from his condemned clients . . .‖ (191). The suggestion here is that one

cannot maintain connection with the civilized life and truly be natural. Thus, the other method,

demonstrated by Joe, Biddy, and later little Pip, is that of being ―completely disengaged from the

city and the world‖ (Schwarzbach 191). This latter, of course, is the only sure way of preserving

natural life and character.

The city in Our Mutual Friend , according to most critics, is a wasteland, a giant dust-

heap, a maze, a prison, having become so because of societal emphasis on money and its

acquisition by any means, legal or not. The corruption of society as a whole is presented,

however fraudulently, in the transformation of natural Noddy Boffin into a civilized, corrupted

miser. Having inherited the money intended for John Harmon, Boffin at first seeks to turn

Harmony Jail into Boffin‘s Bower, a light in the darkness of the city, a ―rural‖ retreat in the

midst of London‘s contamination. As Boffin plays out his pious fraud, however, the reader sees

how a human being and his household are corrupted by money, replicating the process by which

civilization has brought about the same corruption of city and society.

Unlike most of the other novels, Our Mutual Friend contains few passages of physical

description of London. Instead, the city is defined primarily by its inhabitants. London is

merely the background for the ―Voice of Society,‖ those pretentious Veneerings and Lammles

whose names suggest that their appearance is only a thin layer, a mask, that hides little substance

or value. It is a fitting locale for Podsnappery, for extortion by men with wooden legs, for river-

rats who drag the Thames for dead bodies for pecuniary gain, for usurers, drunks, degenerate and

selfish young men, and orphaned children. In short, the reader sees the effects of civilization—

the effects of the city itself—through the people who live and operate there.

As in several later novels, Dickens shows the spread of ―civilization‖ and city boundaries

into rural England. In discussing Hard Times, Schwarzbach claims that ―the countryside is not

really spoiled—it has simply ceased to exist‖ (146-47). The same is virtually true in Our Mutual

Friend . The reader only catches glimpses of the ―country,‖ one of them involving the finally-

united Bella and John in their ―modest little cottage‖ on Blackheath ( OMF 651). Pa Wilfer joins

them for ―a charming ride, and for a charming stroll among heath and bloom‖ ( OMF 651), and

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the ―charming‖ quality of their entire experience, of course, is as much a result of their happiness

and harmony as it is of their surroundings. The reader also catches a glimpse of the rural

neighborhood to which Lizzie Hexam retreats trying to escape the pressures of Headstone and

Eugene:

The Paper Mill had stopped work for the night, and the paths and roads in its

neighborhood were sprinkled with clusters of people going home from their day‘s labour

in it. There were men, women, and children in the groups, and there was no want of

lively colour to flutter in the gentle evening wind. The mingling of various voices and

the sound of laughter made a cheerful impression upon the ear, analogous to that of the

fluttering colours upon the eye. . . So, in the rosy evening, one might watch the ever-

widening beauty of the landscape—beyond the newly-released workers wending home—

beyond the silver river—beyond the deep fields of corn, so prospering, that the loiterers

in their narrow threads of pathway seemed to float immersed breast-high—beyond the

hedgerows and clumps of trees—beyond the windmills on the ridge—away to where the

sky appeared to meet the earth, as if there were no immensity of space between mankind

and Heaven. ( OMF 672)

Into this idyllic setting, however, the corruption of the city creeps, in the form of not-yet-

redeemed Eugene Wrayburn, and his would-be assassin, Bradley Headstone. The country is no

longer a place of peaceful tranquility and escape from the contamination of civilized life.

While the novel has a happy ending for a number of the characters, notably, John and

Bella Harmon do not finally settle in the country. As Schwarzbach suggests, their ―pleasant

garden suburb is allowed to be only a temporary sojourn. The social responsibilities of their

‗new‘ fortune require that they live in London‖ (207). This, however, is not a sign of their

corruption and their eagerness to become an active part of Society, although like Oliver, the

Nicklebys, and others discussed here, they form a happy little society (lowercase s ) of their own.

But just as Eugene Wrayburn, Bella, and to a degree, John Harmon, are redeemed, the relocation

of the Harmons into London signals the hope for the redemption of old Harmon‘s fortune, as

John seeks to use his money to ―[do] good to others‖ ( OMF 664). And this development in turn,

according to Schwarzbach, ―[allows] the possibility of the transformation of urban evil into

wholly urban good‖ (214).

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If we see in Dickens‘s novels over his career an increase in the power of civilization and

the encroachment of the city into the surrounding countryside, we also have other evidence that

tells us that, in Dickens‘s view, all was not lost. Redemption is still possible, and it occurs,

sometimes with multiple characters, in each novel. If these characters remain in the civilized

world without being contaminated by it, if they live by the standards of nature when they are

surrounded by corruption, they are truly ―citizens.‖ In spite of the advance of the city, we can

hope with Dickens that the ideal of the countryside—purity, peace, and simplicity—can be

preserved within the hearts of the redeemed.

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CONCLUSION

To date, no critic has offered concrete evidence that Dickens was broadly familiar with

Rousseau‘s philosophy, only with one particular episode in the Genevan‘s Confessions . Aside

from a brief mention in a letter from Dickens to Forster, no recorded connection between the two

exists. Even those who have claimed that Dickens unequivocally rejected Rousseau‘s

philosophy after his trip to America offer no real proof that he had ever espoused it. The analysis

presented here demonstrates that no such rejection took place, regardless how aware Dickens

was of parallels between his work and Rousseau‘s. Assuredly, however, from his first novel to

the last finished, Dickens‘s characters reflect the human typology propounded by Rousseau.

More important than these parallels are the answers they give to critics who say that Dickens

became increasingly pessimistic during the last half of his life.

According to Jerome Meckier, the first American trip (1842) was a defining event in

Dickens‘s worldview, forever changing him into a hopeless pessimist. He says that Dickens‘s

disenchantment with America and concomitantly with Rousseau‘s philosophy ―was largely

responsible for [his] increasing negativity, which turned the later fictions, except for David

Copperfield , into ever gloomier dystopian pronouncements‖ (2). Of course, Meckier is not alone

in claiming Dickens‘s increasing pessimism. Andrew Sanders agrees, saying that Dickens‘s

―social and political pessimism seems have [ sic ] increased in the mid 1850s‖ ( Spirit of the Age

133), although in an earlier work Sanders claimed that there is ―muted optimism‖ in ―all of

Dickens‘s late works‖ ( Resurrectionist 172). If, however, we examine the evidence presented

here, we see that Dickens continued to be optimistic about the possibilities of humankind

throughout his life and career.

Considering the evidence as a whole, we can discern a development in Dickens‘s thought

that parallels the progression of the natural man into the civilized man into the citizen. If he

seems naïve and innocent in Pickwick Papers and other early novels in presenting natural

characters who withdraw from society and live perfectly natural lives; and if we accept

Meckier‘s claim that he became disillusioned with humanity after his trip to America and that his

outlook was jaded as a result; then we can perceive in the last novels signs of Dickens‘s coming

to terms with the realities of a civilized world and finding an alternative mode of existence and

purpose. We might, like the Romantics, call his final outlook a form of ―higher innocence.‖ We

186

might view his literary corpus as a whole as his own bildungsroman , the story of his maturity

from an idealistic young novelist to one with a realistic world view.

Looking specifically at the character types, we see that from Pickwick to Our Mutual

Friend significantly more civilized characters appear than natural ones. Both Dickens and

Rousseau acknowledged that we live in a civilized world, that the power of society and the

forces of civilization are overwhelming to most members. Yet in every novel, natural characters

play significant roles, whether or not they are the main characters. Whereas we have used one

character from each novel as an example, most of the novels have multiple natural characters.

We could just as well have discussed Sam Weller, Mr. Brownlow, Nicholas Nickleby, the

Cheerybles, Mark Tapley, Agnes Wickfield, Biddy, John Harmon, Lizzie Hexam, or Betty

Higden, as natural characters.

Perhaps more noteworthy, the number of redeemed characters, or citizens, remains

constant or increases as Dickens matures. In Pickwick, two characters are redeemed (and the

two, Jingle and Job Trotter, actually come as a unit), in David Copperfield, three (Martha, Emily,

Micawber), in Great Expectations , four (Pip, Estella, Magwitch, and Miss Havisham), and in

Our Mutual Friend , five, if we include Noddy Boffin (Eugene, Lightwood, Twemlow, and

Bella). The increase in the number of characters who develop into citizens is indicative not of an

increasing pessimism, but of an increased understanding of the manner by which the world itself

can be redeemed.

Of course, Dickens acknowledges, not everyone who is civilized and who has the

opportunity for redemption will accept it. Monks in Oliver Twist is given the means to begin a

comfortable new life, but he wastes it, dying unredeemed. Characters like Heep and Littimer

feign redemption but clearly retain their civilized spirit. Perhaps they, like Sikes and Fagin, are

irredeemably evil; perhaps they are simply exercising their free will—we cannot know.

However, in many cases of the unredeemed, and the civilized-but-redeemed as well, Dickens

provides information showing how their hardened attitudes developed, portrayals of the

civilization process, and a victory for nurture over nature in assuming that they were born

naturally good. In his depiction of the relatively few characters who squander their better

prospects, Dickens clearly shows a realistic grasp of human nature, repeatedly evident from

Pickwick Papers through Our Mutual Friend.

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If we see in the country/city dichotomy a growing pessimism in Dickens owing to

civilization‘s encroachment on the natural province, we also see an optimistic response. Perhaps

society as a whole is permanently civilized. Perhaps the pavement and the buildings cannot be

removed and paradise restored. Perhaps the city is spreading out like an infectious disease and

contaminating the countryside. Perhaps humanity can no longer repair to nature, to solitude, to

the country because people cannot return to a genuinely natural life with the knowledge they

now have and because the country as they have known it has ceased to exist. But like Rousseau,

who accepts reality and posits an alternative plan of action within the civilized world, Dickens

places his hope for humanity in the hands of the individual. True, an individual once civilized

cannot again become natural, but he or she can become a citizen; he or she can learn to live

within civilization, that is, the city, as a person of unselfish cooperation and compassion. Here

we find Scrooge, David, Pip, and John and Bella Harmon.

Critics will continue to defend their claims of Dickens‘s pessimism despite Dickens

himself addressing the issue in one of his earliest novels:

Oliver rose next morning, in better heart; and went about his usual early

occupations, with more hope and pleasure than he had known for many days. The birds

were once more hung out, to sing, in their old places; and the sweetest wild flowers that

could be found, were once more gathered to gladden Rose with their beauty and

fragrance. The melancholy which had seemed to the sad eyes of the anxious boy to hang,

for days past, over every object: beautiful as all were: was dispelled by magic. The dew

seemed to sparkle more brightly on the green leaves; the air to rustle among them with a

sweeter music; and the sky itself to look more blue and bright. Such is the influence

which the condition of our own thoughts, exercises, even over the appearance of external

objects. Men who look on nature, and their fellow-men, and cry that all is dark and

gloomy, are in the right; but the sombre colours are reflections from their own jaundiced

eyes and hearts. The real hues are delicate, and need a clearer vision. ( OT 226)

Perhaps those who see such ―somber colours‖ in Dickens‘s last novels are looking through ―their

own jaundiced eyes and hearts.‖ And, as Dickens concedes, they may be right. But just as did

his predecessor Rousseau in the eighteenth century, Dickens displays, from beginning to end in

his literary career, a ―clearer vision‖ that discerns in the redemption of the individual the

―delicate hues‖ of hope for all humankind. And that, in this writer‘s opinion, is optimism.

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BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH

Jane Phares is a native of Birmingham, Alabama. She completed her Bachelor of Arts

degree in English and Spanish at the University of Montevallo in Montevallo, Alabama, in 1977.

She completed her Master of Arts in English the following year, also at the University of

Montevallo. After several years in the publishing industry, as well as several years teaching

junior high school English, she enrolled in The Florida State University‗s Ph. D. program in

English in 1987 as a teaching assistant. Completing her coursework and preliminary exams in

1989, she returned to Birmingham to resume her teaching career. After eleven years of teaching

high school English, as well as earning a Master of Arts degree in Agency Counseling, she

gained reinstatement to Florida State in the fall of 2003. Currently, Jane is an adjunct instructor

at Jefferson State Community College in Birmingham.

Jane‗s research interests in addition to Dickens are the philosophical underpinnings of

other British Romantic and Victorian writers, including Mary Shelley, Thomas Hardy, George

Eliot, and Robert Browning; the developmental changes in John Wesley‗s Methodism and other

evangelical religions as portrayed in the literature of the Victorian age; the literary mysteries of

Dorothy L. Sayers; and the reflection and effects of British classism on D. H. Lawrence and

other early twentieth-century, as well as Victorian, writers.

194