University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.
HARLEY.

Notwithstanding Harley had intimated
he should be himself again in a
couple of hours, I saw no more of him
that day. I rapped on the door about
nine o'clock in the evening, but getting
no answer, concluded not to disturb
him. As he had taken my room, I
took his, which adjoined it. Once or
twice in the course of the night, I fancied
I heard him moan—but it might
have been only fancy. I gave Tom orders
to be at his door by daylight, and
if he came forth to let me know immediately.
I arose at a rather earlier hour
than usual, but found Harley's door still
locked, and Tom informed me that he
had heard no sound within. Then I
was tempted to rouse him at once; but
finally resolved to wait till noon, in the
hope he would ere that time make his
appearance. To while away the hours,
for I did not feel like going out, I procured
Nicholas Nickelby, and had just
got deeply interested in that beautiful
production of Dickens', when suddenly
I became aware that some one was
looking over my shoulder. I turned,
and, to my great relief, beheld Harley.

“You think my two hours have been
rather long, eh?” he said, with a smile,
all traces of wildness and excitement
having disappeared.

“Rather long, truly, my friend; but
I am rejoiced to see you yourself once
more,” I answered. “Pray tell me
what was the matter with—”

“How do you like Dickens?” he
interrupted.

“Much, in fact, so far as I have
read, I am delighted.”

“And how many of his works have
you read?”

“This is the first I have ever seriously
attempted.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes! I glanced over a few pages
of Oliver Twist, some years ago, but
threw it down in disgust.”

“Why so?” he asked in surprise.

“Because I thought it trash.”

“Ah! my dear Harry, that was because
you did not read far enough to
discover, that below that light, trifling,
superficial surface, lay a mine of rich,
pure, earnest thought. Your error consisted
in mistaking the froth for the
substance. And in this regard you are
not alone. There are very many who
do not like Dickens, for the reason that
they do not understand him. They
take up one of his books as you did,
read a little here and a little there,
throw it down, and pronounce the writer
silly. Why? Because, in nine cases
out of ten, they mistake the language
of one of his foolish characters for his
own.—And Dickens introduces foolish
characters for a purpose; he does it for
contrast; he does it to show society as
it is; he does it to ridicule certain customs,
manners, personages, and institutions,
which are obnoxious to every
sensible mind. Suppose he attempted
this in essays—who would read them?
Of the millions who now mentally devour
his every thought—liking what he
likes—abhorring what he abhors—so
that his ideas frame public opinion, the
strongest law of all laws,—how many,
think you, would have heard of him,
had he attempted logic only? instead
of sketching with his pen, quaint,
homely, life-pictures, which do not clog
the brain with abstruse metaphysics,
but hang up in the mind's vision, to be
seen at all times without an effort?
I like Dickens, Harry, for several reasons.
His power over the human mind
has been used to effect a noble purpose,
that of ameliorating the condition of
thousands of his fellow creatures. He
has brought home to the rich and titled,
the sufferings, the miseries, of those
poor, oppressed, down-trodden beings,
whom they have been taught as a virtue

to scorn and despise; and he has
done this in a way that has told upon
their hearts and consciences. He has
shown them that vice may be wrapped
in silks and broadcloths, and virtue in
rags; he has shown them that under
the poorest garments may beat hearts
great and noble—may live affections
pure, true and holy; that the roughest
casements may enclose intellects grand,
gigantic, God-like. All this has he
done—for this I like him—and for this
he deserves his fame. He has his
faults—who has not? They say in
private life he is an aristocrat—what
of that? His private life belongs to
himself—with that we have no business;
his public sayings are ours—
they belong to the masses—the whole
human race—and they are purely democratic.”

“Well,” replied I, “after this, I
shall read Dickens with a new interest
—an interest aside from mere amusement.
If his productions are what you
represent them, I have done him great
injustice.”

“Read, Harry, and judge for yourself,”
replied Harley.

“Well, my friend, since you have
expressed your opinion thus freely in
regard to one author, pray give me
your views of authors in general.”

“Why, my dear fellow, I scarcely
know how or where to begin; in fact,
I am not sure I understand what you
require.”

“I mean that you take up one author
after another, and say what you think
of their writings.”

“Novelists?”

“Ay, and poets also.”

“The task is too tedious for the
present, Harry; and besides, I do not
profess to be a critic.”

“And if you did I should not care
for your opinion; for then you would
harp upon their faults merely to show
your own superiority. But, letting that
pass. what do you think of novels collectively?
their effect upon society?”

“Good in the main, though liable to
abuse, both by writers and readers.
A novel, if properly written, is a true
picture of life as it exists, or did exist,
at the time and place where the scene
is laid; and though professing to be
fiction, it is as much a living fact as a
painted landscape is a fac simile of nature.
History gives us only the skeleton
of great events—often erroneous
ones at that—while historical fiction
not only presents the skeleton to our
view, but clothes upon it flesh and
blood and soul, till it warms into being,
and shadows forth the `form and body
of the time.' In it we see the dead resuscitated,
and endowed with life and
passion, reacting their several parts, with
all their wonted peculiarities. We see
not men in the abstract, but living,
breathing, human beings, walking the
earth as of old, with all their ancient
fancies and prejudices, surrounded by
the circumstances of their period; and
instead of their being brought forward
to our time, we go back to theirs, and
by the force of imagination find ourselves
ever by their side—in city, in
forest, in castle—taking part in their
pleasures and their griefs, their loves
and their hates; and thus do we understand
them, as in no other manner we
could. For instance, should I say to
you, there was one Napoleon Bonaparte,
a native of Corsica, who, by the
force of circumstances, rose from obscurity
to be the Emperor of France,
and went forth with great armies, and
made war upon all the nations of Europe,
shook kingdoms, made monarchs
tremble, became a great conqueror, only
to be overthrown and die in exile—you
would only know that there had been
such a being, who performed such
deeds; and the only conception you
would have of him, would be such as
you would naturally associate with an
Emperor and a conqueror; but should
I, after telling you this, proceed to describe
the personal appearance of this
Emperor—his manners, his habits, his
feelings, his hopes, his fears—relate
what he said on this occasion and on
that—in fact, lay bare to you all the
secrets of his soul—portray his virtues,
his vices, his greatness, his littleness—
the Emperor, the conqueror, the myth,
would be lost in the man, and you
would behold only a breathing, sentient

being like yourself. The former, comparatively
speaking, would be history—
the latter, fiction—so from this you can
judge how limited would be the ideas
of the masses concerning the past, were
fiction altogether destroyed.

“Again, much fiction is not historical,
but relates to society as we see it around
us; but in many instances it compresses
society into so small a space, that we
can look upon it in our closet, as upon
a correct miniature of a familiar or unfamiliar
face. If the novelist is true to
his purpose, and `hold the mirror up
to nature,' he has the power of doing
much good—for he reaches a class
which sermons never reach—who read
for amusement—but who by this
means may be made to imbibe good
sentiments and noble principles—may
be taught to love virtue and hate vice,
and even to put their faith and trust in
the Divine Creator; whereas, should
one attempt to diug these matters into
their ears by abstruse theories, he would
be met with ridicule and scorn. Again,
much fiction is bad, and has a bad tendency,
and this should be condemned,
and always is by the discriminating
reader, who marks his author as he
marks a friend or enemy. The good
lives, the bad dies; but nothing that is
good in itself, should be condemned because
it is abused. The man who condemns
all novels, because some are bad,
is like a man condemning all religion,
because a priest or minister has proved
recreant to the faith he professes. Discrimination
in reading, is worth all the
sermons ever preached against reading;
and if you can have this well taught,
understood, and acted upon, you need
not fear the result.”

“You put novel reading before me
in a new light,” I replied; “for I have
been always taught to regard it merely
as a source of amusement, not as a
benefit.”

“Suffer me to correct you, Harry,
All rational amusement is beneficial,
both to mind and body; for mind and
body are so dependant on each other,
that what affects one affects both.
Were we to take an infant, put it in
chains, and confine it in a narrow pri
son, it would either wither and die like
a blasted flower, or grow up a weak,
sickly, feeble thing, of no use to itself
or others; and so if we chain and imprison
the mind to the narrow circle of
visible facts, giving it no chance to soar
and expand itself in the glorious field
of imagination, we render it apathetic
and imbecile, and perhaps reduce it
below the limited range of a mere brute.
God never designed this; for the more
healthy, robust, and expansive the mind,
the greater its knowledge; the greater
its knowledge, the greater its comprehension;
and the greater its comprehension,
the more will it reverence and
glorify its Creator, who is seen in all
His works. The body must have exercise,
the mind amusement; and if the
one be healthy and judicious, the other
moral and rational, the effect will be to
render the man better, wiser, and happier.
And now, my dear Harry, what
do you think of my sentiments?”

“That they are sensible and correct.
But go on! I am anxious to hear you
still further.”

“Pardon me, my friend, not now,”
returned Harley, gravely. “I may at
some future period, but not now; for
to tell you the truth, a very weighty
matter lays upon my mind.”

“Indeed! then why did you not
mention it before?”

“For the simple reason, that I wished
first to convince you I am calm and
sane.”

“But, my friend, I have not questioned
your sanity.”

“Not to-day, perhaps; but you did
yesterday, and I was too much excited
to explain.—Now, then, you see I am
calm and rational, and I come to you
as a friend, to know if you will enlist
yourself in my service, and be my
companion on a journey prescribed by
the hand of fate?”

“Alas!” thought I, “my friend is a
little touched;” for the very method he
appeared to have taken to convince me
of his sanity, now led me to fear his
mind was not altogether right. But
I determined to satisfy myself on this
point by further questions.

“Whither would you have me go?”
I asked.

“First to Texas.”

“And why to Texas?”

“I wish to meet again with Viola.”

“And pray who is Viola?”

“An Angel—But stop! I will drop
metaphor, and speak understandingly;
for, my dear Harry, I again perceive
you doubt of my being all right here;”
and he tapped his forehead.

“I doubt?—why, my dear Harley—”

“There, do not deny it,” he interrupted;
“you know I profess to read
the passing thought of almost any mind,
and it is certainly not difficult to read
one so legibly written on the lineaments
of the face as yours.”

“Well, then, frankly, I own to the
fact,” I returned. “I did really begin
to fear you were non compos mentis.”

“I like your candor, Harry; but I
regret I have given you cause to think
me of unsound mind,” replied my
friend, with a sorrowful air.

“But your manner was so strange
yesterday, Harley?”

“I know it: I was troubled, excited,
but not mad, Harry: no, believe me, I
was not mad. I could forgive you for
so thinking yesterday, because you
have known me but a short time—but
what cause have I given you for the
same opinion to-day?”

“No other than the simple fact, that
you have talked gravely here for some
time, merely, as you acknowledge, to
convince me you are sane, as if you had
some doubts of it yourself.”

“Ah! that is true. Well, let it pass.
But now, seriously and candidly—do
you, or do you not, think I am in my
right mind at the present moment?”

“I see no reason to doubt it, other
than I have mentioned; in short, I will
take your word for it; if you say you
are, I will believe you.”

“Then, positively, I assert I am.”

“Enough! I am satisfied.”

“I will then proceed in so rational a
manner, that you shall have no reason
to doubt again. You ask who is Viola?
It is no more than right, since I wish
you to be my companion on an adventure
in which she is concerned, that you
should know something of her; but you
will pardon me, if I only give you an
outline sketch now, and leave the detail,
the filling up, to some future period.”

My friend paused a few moments, as
if to collect his thoughts, and then proceeded
with the following story.