And what of dear Charles Dickens—he, whom certain superfine persons who read Yellow Journalism presume to call "vulgar"? Is love, is pity, is tenderness, is faith "vulgar"? Is kindness to the poor, patience with the suffering, tolerance for all men and all creeds "vulgar"? If so, then Charles Dickens was vulgar!—not a doubt of it! Few authors have ever been so blessedly, gloriously "vulgar" as he! What marvellous pictures his "power of the pen" conjures up at once before our eyes!—pathetic, playful, humourous, thrilling—rising to grandeur in such scenes as the shipwreck in David Copperfield; or that wonderful piece of description in the Tale of Two Cities, when the tramping feet of the Spirit of the French Revolution sweep past in the silence of the night! Match us such a passage in any literature past or present! It is unique in its own way—as unique as all great work must be. There is nothing quite like it, and never will be anything quite like it. And when we "go" with such great authors as these—and by this I mean, when we are determined to be one with them—we shall win such victories over our hearts and minds, our passions and desires, as shall make us better and stronger men and women.
And this brings me to a point which I have often earnestly considered. One cannot help noticing that the present system of education is fast doing away with two great ingredients for the thorough enjoyment of life, and especially the enjoyment of Literature—Imagination and Appreciation. On the school-boy or school-girl who is "coached" or "crammed," the gates of fairyland and romance are shut with a bang. I had
