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rassed transfusions of personality which were Dickens's letters, even
the flourish seemed to say something. One could read in it a reluc–
tance to finish, a promise of more to come, a sort of "to be con–
tinued" such as he appended to the successive installments of his
serially published novels. One of the incidental attractions of the
letters is that they are rather different in spirit from the novels. Yet
they obviously owe some of their disciplined spontaneity to their
origin in a mind used to ready communication, affectionately con–
scious of an affectionate audience, aware that its productions were
being eagerly waited for. No doubt this awareness sometimes weigh–
ed heavily on Dickens as a correspondent. He was a prodigy of
good will and fluency, not a monster of them, and he could be per–
functory, slightly impatient, apologetic for lapses and delays, like
anybody else. One acquaintance living in Lausanne seems to have
expected him to report periodically on world affairs. This man in–
spired the only dull sequence of letters Dickens wrote.
For the rest, the promise of more to come was generally ful–
filled with the expected liveliness. Dickens wrote to a number of
friends through long, formidably busy years; while the unknown
admirer of his work or petitioner for his charity was fairly certain
to get a reply that was charming, thoughtful and believable beyond
the call of duty. For Dickens made duty a pleasure if anyone ever
did, and as a correspondent it was his pleasure to breathe amiability
upon what he knew to be an unlovely world. His letters were acts
of friendship, even when they were about business. Any claims they
have on literature are primarily based on this consideration. He
wrote them to further human intercourse, not to further the art of
letter-writing as such. Whatever thoughts he may have had of
posterity were probably attended by the hope that posterity would
be disappointed. He made bonfires of the letters that came to him
from others; and if he failed to ask that all of his own be destroyed
in turn, it was doubtless from common sense. They were so numer–
ous, so far-flung. Sitting down to his correspondence nearly every
day of his life, when his literary work for that day was done, he
wrote as many as twelve letters at a stretch and sent them off just
about everywhere. Only a bonfire on a world scale could have de–
stroyed the letters of Charles Dickens.
