It was an instance of that
force of will in him, which compelled a naturally somewhat delicate
frame to comport itself like that of an athlete. Mr. Forster somewhere
says of him, "Dickens's habits were robust, but his health was not."
This is entirely true as far as my observation extends.
Of the general charm of his manner I despair of giving any idea to
those who have not seen or known him. This was a charm by no means
dependent on his genius. He might have been the great writer he was
and yet not have warmed the social atmosphere wherever he appeared
with that summer glow which seemed to attend him. His laugh was
brimful of enjoyment. There was a peculiar humorous protest in it when
recounting or hearing anything specially absurd, as who should say
"'Pon my soul this is _too_ ridiculous! This passes all bounds!" and
bursting out afresh as though the sense of the ridiculous overwhelmed
him like a tide, which carried all hearers away with it, and which
I well remember. His enthusiasm was boundless. It entered into
everything he said or did. It belonged doubtless to that amazing
fertility and wealth of ideas and feeling that distinguished his
genius.
No one having any knowledge of the profession of literature can read
Dickens's private letters and not stand amazed at the unbounded
affluence of imagery, sentiment, humour, and keen observation which
he poured out in them. There was no stint, no reservation for trade
purposes.
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