into oblivion, and plays up his characters to a final rally; so sure of his touch upon the readers' emotions that he can disregard their bewilderment. The first chapter, a very dull, long-drawn piece of ridicule directed against the supposed advantages of "birth," has nothing whatever to do with the story; the book would gain by its omission. Dickens in a splenetic mood (a rare thing) is far from at his best. Chuzzlewit surpasses all his novels in the theatrical conventionality of its great closing scene—its grand finale (see chapter lii.). Around old Martin (at the centre of the stage) are grouped all the dramatis personæ, whether they have any business there or not; Mrs. Gamp, Poll Sweedlepipes, and young Bailey coming in without rhyme or reason, simply to complete the circle. It is magnificent; the brilliant triumph of stage tradition. But it does not suffice; something more is needed that the reader's appetite for a cheerful ending may have entire satisfaction; therefore, before the book closes, who should turn up in the heart of London but that very family of miserable emigrants whom Martin and Tapley had left behind them in the wild west of America! Here they are, at the foot of the Monument, close by Todgers'—arrived on purpose to shake hands with everyone, and to fill the
