_Little Dorrit_ stands in Dickens's life chiefly as a signal of how far he went down the road of realism, of sadness, and of what is called modernity. True, it was by no means the best of the books of his later period; some even think it the worst. _Great Expectations_ is certainly the best of the later novels; some even think it the best of all the novels. Nor is it the novel most concerned with strictly recent problems; that title must be given to _Hard Times_. Nor again is it the most finely finished or well constructed of the later books; that claim can be probably made for _Edwin Drood_. By a queer verbal paradox the most carefully finished of his later tales is the tale that is not finished at all. In form, indeed, the book bears a superficial resemblance to those earlier works by which the young Dickens had set the whole world laughing long ago. Much of the story refers to a remote time early in the nineteenth century; much of it was actually recalled and copied from the life of Dickens's father in the old Marshalsea prison. Also the narrative has something of the form, or rather absence of form, which belonged to _Nicholas Nickleby_ or _Martin Chuzzlewit_. It has something of the old air of being a string of disconnected adventures, like a boy's book about bears and Indians. The Dorrits go wandering for no particular reason on the Continent of Europe, just as young Martin Chuzzlewit went wandering for no particular reason on the continent of America. The story of _Little Dorrit_ stops and lingers at the doors of the Circumlocution Office much in the same way that the story of Samuel Pickwick stops and lingers in the political excitement of Eatanswill. The villain, Blandois, is a very stagey villain indeed; quite as stagey as Ralph Nickleby or the mysterious Monk. The secret of the dark house of Clennam is a very silly secret; quite as silly as the secret of Ralph Nickleby or the secret of Monk. Yet all these external similarities between _Little Dorrit_ and the earliest books, all this loose, melodramatic quality, only serves to make more obvious and startling the fact that some change has come over the soul of Dickens. _Hard Times_ is harsh; but then _Hard Times_ is a social pamphlet; perhaps it is only harsh as a social pamphlet must be harsh. _Bleak House_ is a little sombre; but then _Bleak House_ is almost a detective story; perhaps it is only sombre in the sense that a detective story must be sombre. _A Tale of Two Cities_ is a tragedy; but then _A Tale of Two Cities_ is a tale of the French Revolution; perhaps it is only a tragedy because the French Revolution was a tragedy. _The Mystery of Edwin Drood_ is dark; but then the mystery of anybody must be dark. In all these other cases of the later books an artistic reason can be given--a reason of theme or of construction for the slight sadness that seems to cling to them. But exactly because _Little Dorrit_ is a mere