The Cricket on the Hearth - A Fairy Tale of Home: With Appreciations and Criticisms By G. K. Chesterton
By Charles Dickens and G.K. Chesterton
3.5/5
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About this ebook
Charles John Huffam Dickens (1812–1870) was an English writer and social critic famous for having created some of the world's most well-known fictional characters. His works became unprecedentedly popular during his life, and today he is commonly regarded as the greatest Victorian-era novelist. Although perhaps better known for such works as “Great Expectations” or “A Christmas Carol”, Dickens first gained success with the 1836 serial publication of “The Pickwick Papers”, which turned him almost overnight into an international literary celebrity thanks to his humour, satire, and astute observations concerning society and character. This classic work is being republished now in a new edition complete with an introductory chapter from “Appreciations and Criticisms of the Works of Charles Dickens” by G. K. Chesterton.
Charles Dickens
Charles Dickens (1812-1870) was an English writer and social critic. Regarded as the greatest novelist of the Victorian era, Dickens had a prolific collection of works including fifteen novels, five novellas, and hundreds of short stories and articles. The term “cliffhanger endings” was created because of his practice of ending his serial short stories with drama and suspense. Dickens’ political and social beliefs heavily shaped his literary work. He argued against capitalist beliefs, and advocated for children’s rights, education, and other social reforms. Dickens advocacy for such causes is apparent in his empathetic portrayal of lower classes in his famous works, such as The Christmas Carol and Hard Times.
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Reviews for The Cricket on the Hearth - A Fairy Tale of Home
12 ratings14 reviews
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5What could project Gutenberg be thinking to put that constipated cricket cover on this book. 3 old men, 3 young women, one married to one of old men, one the daughter, one the fiance. This depiction of domesticity in a May-October relationship shadowed by the obvious blight in the coming May-December marriage is really not of our time, and not to my taste.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/51st 1927. Very good condition without dustwrapper. 'A Fairy Tale of Home'. Red cloth, gilt titles and vignette. Pictorial endpapers. 8 colour plates plus b/w illustrations. 182 pages, top edge gilt. Spine and corners bumped. Some uneven fading to spine and covers. Foxing to first few and last few pages. Contents clean.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Part of the Christmas books written by Dicken's, this being the third and much less dark than The Chimes and The Christmas Carol. I listened (relistened) to the audio by read by Jim Dale. He is good but I kept hearing Harry Potter characters. This is a nice story, ends well. It has three "chirps" or parts.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Started slow with dialogue and action that became confusing at time. It took about two thirds of the book to get to where things started to develop into a story one could follow. The writing quickly turned into a story that drew me in and held me to the end. A four star except for the beginning, but it is well worth finish.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The third of Mr Dickens' Christmas Books and much less gloomy than The Chimes. A gentle story about marriage, love and fidelity; Dickens left social criticism to one side for this one. He wanted The Cricket to be '... a vein of glowing, hearty, generous, mirthful, beaming references in everything to Home, and Fireside.' It's Christmas and John Peerybingle has been married to his much younger wife Dot, for almost a year when he is led to believe by the grisly toymaker, Mr Tackleton, that she is having an affair. Tackleton himself is due to be married to another younger woman and the toymaker's assistant, Caleb Plummer, realises that by pretending to his blind daughter that Tackleton has been generous and loving to them their whole lives (when of course he has been the exact opposite) that Caleb has caused his daughter to fall in love with Tackleton and she is distraught that Tackleton is getting married to someone else.But the cricket on the hearth sings to Peerybingle and helps him to remember the love he has for his young wife and there is almost a fairy tale happy ending with Tackleton's reform being so rapid as to be slightly startling. As usual for Dickens, his characterisations are brilliant and even if the rapid reform of Tackleton is a little too rapid to be truly realistic, the Christmas Books were intended to be fables rather than gritty, realistic dramas and the ending is truly heartwarming.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5The Cricket on the Hearth is Dickens' 11th major work, and the third of his five Christmas novellas. To my surprise, on re-reading, this is actually a dark horse contender, full of delight and comic misunderstanding. It's by no means as powerful as A Christmas Carol, but the symbolism of the household cricket (and the social mores misconstrued throughout the novel) is at least an interesting window into the everyday world of 1845. This is exactly the kind of story told around the hearth, and - while I wouldn't suggest anyone go out of their way to read it - it is a sweet tale.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Got this free from Audible narrated by Jim Dale, and so glad I did. I really enjoyed this short story, who knew a cricket could be a “fairy godmother”. It’s Dickens it has happy and sad moments, and of course a moral about changing the way you act and live and some Christmas miracles.3 ½ Stars
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5A man and woman happily married only one year, with a new baby, invite a stranger into their home. In the next few days, their marriage is practically dissolved by misunderstandings. In this story we meet several of their neighbors as well. All lovely characters, created by the master character builder, Charles Dickens.The cricket in this story is somewhat like the Oracle at Delphi, never showing an untruth, but very difficult to interpret. I enjoyed the humor in the story, although I became very impatient with a couple of the characters. Dickens always makes one woman saccharine sweet and annoying, and one man as dense as a brick. Still, the formula makes for a nice little tale.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Great read...Charles Dickens Christmas novels...duh. Thanks, Audible, for the freebie.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5It takes a while for the reader to understand what is happening in this story. Possibly, I'm used to a long character development in novels and this is a short story. I also didn't understand what was meant by a cricket in the hearth.Caleb lives in an impoverished home with his blind daughter, Bertha. His boss, Takleton, is stern and to make his daughter feel better about his boss, Caleb exposes Takleton's virtues. He does such a good job that Bertha falls in love with Takleton.We learn that Takleton is to be married and Bertha feels hurt with the news. Then a new character appears and there is a major change in the direction of the story.The conclusion is nicely done and everyone forgives one another and they find happiness.The short story came out as a Christmas story and gives readers a lesson about love and forgiveness.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5A solid read by Dickens.
- Rating: 2 out of 5 stars2/5Dickens at his most melodramatic. The villain is clearly The Villain, all but twirling his mustache to wed the young girl who obviously doesn't love him. There is a heroine thought to have committed a moral crime, a hero wronged, a good/saintly girl with a handicap (blindness), etc. etc. Melodrama in all ways, and because it's a short story we don't get much character development, so we don't really see any of these as complete, three dimensional beings. As in most melodrama, there is indeed a happy ending. So there's that, I suppose.
I'd put this down as worth reading only because it's Dickens, if you need a reminder that in some ways he wasn't always better than his contemporary writers. If you find this shockingly dull then I must assure you that there is a LOT of this sort of short story filling up various magazines of the times. They're not reprinted for a reason (the dullness/predictability), and you get the sense that most authors churned this sort of thing out to pay the bills. - Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Nowhere close to A Christmas Carol, and a little overly sentimental, the biggest virtue of the book is Tackleton, the cynical toymaker, although his conversion to good at the end is unconvincing and never would have happened in one of Dickens' novels.
- Rating: 2 out of 5 stars2/5This is Dickens' third Christmas book, and the supernatural theme continues with fairies this time, to follow the ghosts and goblins of the previous books. It is a sickly sweet folksy tale of misunderstandings between lovers, and characters in disguise, and people planning to marry the wrong person - a little like a Shakespearean farce. Just a little too schmaltzy for me. Read Feb 2012.
Book preview
The Cricket on the Hearth - A Fairy Tale of Home - Charles Dickens
THE CRICKET
ON THE HEARTH
A Fairy Tale of Home
By
CHARLES DICKENS
WITH
APPRECIATIONS AND CRITICISMS
BY G. K. CHESTERTON
First published in 1845
Copyright © 2020 Read & Co. Books
This edition is published by Read & Co. Books,
an imprint of Read & Co.
This book is copyright and may not be reproduced or copied in any
way without the express permission of the publisher in writing.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available
from the British Library.
Read & Co. is part of Read Books Ltd.
For more information visit
www.readandcobooks.co.uk
Contents
CHRISTMAS BOOKS
By G. K. Chesterton
CHAPTER I
CHIRP THE FIRST
CHAPTER II
CHIRP THE SECOND
CHAPTER III
CHIRP THE THIRD
CHRISTMAS BOOKS
By G. K. Chesterton
The mystery of Christmas is in a manner identical with the mystery of Dickens. If ever we adequately explain the one we may adequately explain the other. And indeed, in the treatment of the two, the chronological or historical order must in some degree be remembered. Before we come to the question of what Dickens did for Christmas we must consider the question of what Christmas did for Dickens. How did it happen that this bustling, nineteenth-century man, full of the almost cock-sure common-sense of the utilitarian and liberal epoch, came to associate his name chiefly in literary history with the perpetuation of a half pagan and half Catholic festival which he would certainly have called an antiquity and might easily have called a superstition? Christmas has indeed been celebrated before in English literature; but it had, in the most noticeable cases, been celebrated in connection with that kind of feudalism with which Dickens would have severed his connection with an ignorant and even excessive scorn. Sir Roger de Coverley kept Christmas; but it was a feudal Christmas. Sir Walter Scott sang in praise of Christmas; but it was a feudal Christmas. And Dickens was not only indifferent to the dignity of the old country gentleman or to the genial archæology of Scott; he was even harshly and insolently hostile to it. If Dickens had lived in the neighbourhood of Sir Roger de Coverley he would undoubtedly, like Tom Touchy, have been always having the law of him.
If Dickens had stumbled in among the old armour and quaint folios of Scott’s study he would certainly have read his brother novelist a lesson in no measured terms about the futility of thus fumbling in the dust-bins of old oppression and error. So far from Dickens being one of those who like a thing because it is old, he was one of those cruder kind of reformers, in theory at least, who actually dislike a thing because it is old. He was not merely the more righteous kind of Radical who tries to uproot abuses; he was partly also that more suicidal kind of Radical who tries to uproot himself. In theory at any rate, he had no adequate conception of the importance of human tradition; in his time it had been twisted and falsified into the form of an opposition to democracy. In truth, of course, tradition is the most democratic of all things, for tradition is merely a democracy of the dead as well as the living. But Dickens and his special group or generation had no grasp of this permanent position; they had been called to a special war for the righting of special wrongs. In so far as such an institution as Christmas was old, Dickens would even have tended to despise it. He could never have put the matter to himself in the correct way—that while there are some things whose antiquity does prove that they are dying, there are some other things whose antiquity only proves that they cannot die. If some Radical contemporary and friend of Dickens had happened to say to him that in defending the mince-pies and the mummeries of Christmas he was defending a piece of barbaric and brutal ritualism, doomed to disappear in the light of reason along with the Boy-Bishop and the Lord of Misrule, I am not sure that Dickens (though he was one of the readiest and most rapid masters of reply in history) would have found it very easy upon his own principles to answer. It was by a great ancestral instinct that he defended Christmas; by that sacred sub-consciousness which is called tradition, which some have called a dead thing, but which is really a thing far more living than the intellect. There is a dark kinship and brotherhood of all mankind which is much too deep to be called heredity or to be in any way explained in scientific formulæ; blood is thicker than water and is especially very much thicker than water on the brain. But this unconscious and even automatic quality in Dickens’s defence of the Christmas feast, this fact that his defence might almost be called animal rather than mental, though in proper language it should be called merely virile; all this brings us back to the fact that we must begin with the atmosphere of the subject itself. We must not ask Dickens what Christmas is, for with all his heat and eloquence he does not know. Rather we must ask Christmas what Dickens is—ask how this strange child of Christmas came to be born out of due time.
Dickens devoted his genius in a somewhat special sense to the description of happiness. No other literary man of his eminence has made this central human aim so specially his subject matter. Happiness is a mystery—generally a momentary mystery—which seldom stops long enough to submit itself to artistic observation, and which, even when it is habitual, has something about it which renders artistic description almost impossible. There are twenty tiny minor poets who can describe fairly impressively an eternity of agony; there are very few even of the eternal poets who can describe ten minutes of satisfaction. Nevertheless, mankind being half divine is always in love with the impossible, and numberless attempts have been made from the beginning of human literature to describe a real state of felicity. Upon the whole, I think, the most successful have been the most frankly physical and symbolic; the flowers of Eden or the jewels of the New Jerusalem. Many writers, for instance, have called the gold and chrysolite of the Holy City a vulgar lump of jewellery. But when these critics themselves attempt to describe their conceptions of future happiness, it is always some priggish nonsense about planes,
about cycles of fulfilment,
or spirals of spiritual evolution.
Now a cycle is just as much a physical metaphor as a flower of Eden; a spiral is just as much a physical metaphor as a precious stone. But, after all, a garden is a beautiful thing; whereas this is by no means necessarily true of a cycle, as can be seen in the case of a bicycle. A jewel, after all, is a beautiful thing; but this is not necessarily so of a spiral, as can be seen in the case of a corkscrew. Nothing is gained by dropping the old material metaphors, which did hint at heavenly beauty, and adopting other material metaphors which do not even give a hint of earthly beauty. This modern or spiral method of describing indescribable happiness may, I think, be dismissed. Then there has been another method which has been adopted by many men of a very real poetical genius. It was the method of the old pastoral poets like Theocritus. It was in another way that adopted by the elegance and piety of Spenser. It was certainly expressed in the pictures of Watteau; and it had a very sympathetic and even manly expression in modern England in the decorative poetry of William Morris. These men of genius, from Theocritus to Morris, occupied themselves in endeavouring to describe happiness as a state of certain human beings, the atmosphere of a commonwealth, the enduring climate of certain cities or islands. They poured forth treasures of the truest kind of imagination upon describing the happy lives and landscapes of Utopia or Atlantis or the Earthly Paradise. They traced with the most tender accuracy the tracery of its fruit-trees or the glimmering garments of its women; they used every ingenuity of colour or intricate shape to suggest its infinite delight. And what they succeeded in suggesting was always its infinite melancholy. William Morris described the Earthly Paradise in such a way that the only strong emotional note left on the mind was the feeling of how homeless his travellers felt in that alien Elysium; and the reader sympathised with them, feeling that he would prefer not only Elizabethan England but even twentieth-century Camberwell to such a land of shining shadows. Thus literature has almost always failed in endeavouring to describe happiness as a state. Human tradition, human custom and folk-lore (though far more true and reliable than literature as a rule) have not often succeeded in giving quite the correct symbols for a real atmosphere of camaraderie and joy. But here and there the note has been struck with the sudden vibration of the vox humana. In human tradition it has been struck chiefly in the old celebrations of Christmas. In literature it has been struck chiefly in Dickens’s Christmas tales.
In the historic celebration of Christmas as it remains from Catholic times in certain northern countries (and it is to be remembered that in Catholic times the northern countries were, if possible, more Catholic than anybody else), there are three qualities which explain, I think, its hold upon the human sense of happiness, especially in such men as Dickens. There are three notes of Christmas, so to speak, which are also notes of happiness, and which the pagans and the Utopians forget. If we state what they are in the case of Christmas, it will be quite sufficiently obvious how important they are in the case of Dickens.
The first quality is what may be called the dramatic quality. The happiness is not a state; it is a crisis. All the old customs surrounding the celebration