As Men Who Had Achieved Scientific Or Literary Distinction
Inspired Me With Far Greater Awe Than Those Of The Highest
Rank - of whom from my childhood I had seen abundance -
Alison's celebrity, his courteous manner, his oracular
speech, his voluminous
Works, and his voluminous dimensions,
filled me with too much diffidence and respect to admit of
any freedom of approach. One listened to him, as he held
forth of an evening when surrounded by his family, with
reverential silence. He had a strong Scotch accent; and, if
a wee bit prosy at times, it was sententious and polished
prose that he talked; he talked invariably like a book. His
family were devoted to him; and I felt that no one who knew
him could help liking him.
When Thackeray was giving readings from 'The Four Georges,' I
dined with Lady Grey and Landseer, and we three went to hear
him. I had heard Dickens read 'The Trial of Bardell against
Pickwick,' and it was curious to compare the style of the two
great novelists. With Thackeray, there was an entire absence
of either tone or colour. Of course the historical nature of
his subject precluded the dramatic suggestion to be looked
for in the Pickwick trial, thus rendering comparison
inapposite. Nevertheless one was bound to contrast them.
Thackeray's features were impassive, and his voice knew no
inflection. But his elocution in other respects was perfect,
admirably distinct and impressive from its complete
obliteration of the reader.
The selection was from the reign of George the Third; and no
part of it was more attentively listened to than his passing
allusion to himself. 'I came,' he says, 'from India as a
child, and our ship touched at an island on the way home,
where my black servant took me a long walk over rocks and
hills until we reached a garden, where we saw a man walking.
"That is he," said the black man, "that is Bonaparte! He
eats three sheep every day, and all the little children he
can lay hands on!"' One went to hear Thackeray, to see
Thackeray; and the child and the black man and the ogre were
there on the stage before one. But so well did the lecturer
perform his part, that ten minutes later one had forgotten
him, and saw only George Selwyn and his friend Horace
Walpole, and Horace's friend, Miss Berry - whom by the way I
too knew and remember. One saw the 'poor society ghastly in
its pleasures, its loves, its revelries,' and the redeeming
vision of 'her father's darling, the Princess Amelia,
pathetic for her beauty, her sweetness, her early death, and
for the extreme passionate tenderness with which her father
loved her.' The story told, as Thackeray told it, was as
delightful to listen to as to read.
Not so with Dickens. He disappointed me. He made no attempt
to represent the different characters by varied utterance;
but whenever something unusually comic was said, or about to
be said, he had a habit of turning his eyes up to the
ceiling; so that, knowing what was coming, one nervously
anticipated the upcast look, and for the moment lost the
illusion.
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