Chapter: CHAPTER XXXIII. WHICH MAY PASS FOR WHATEVER IT MAY PROVE TO BE WORTH.



But ere be given the rather grave story of Charlemont, a reply must in
civility be made to a certain voice which methinks I hear, that, in view
of past chapters, and more particularly the last, where certain antics
appear, exclaims: How unreal all this is! Who did ever dress or act like
your cosmopolitan? And who, it might be returned, did ever dress or act
like harlequin?

Strange, that in a work of amusement, this severe fidelity to real life
should be exacted by any one, who, by taking up such a work,
sufficiently shows that he is not unwilling to drop real life, and turn,
for a time, to something different. Yes, it is, indeed, strange that any
one should clamor for the thing he is weary of; that any one, who, for
any cause, finds real life dull, should yet demand of him who is to
divert his attention from it, that he should be true to that dullness.

There is another class, and with this class we side, who sit down to a
work of amusement tolerantly as they sit at a play, and with much the
same expectations and feelings. They look that fancy shall evoke scenes
different from those of the same old crowd round the custom-house
counter, and same old dishes on the boardinghouse table, with characters
unlike those of the same old acquaintances they meet in the same old way
every day in the same old street. And as, in real life, the proprieties
will not allow people to act out themselves with that unreserve
permitted to the stage; so, in books of fiction, they look not only for
more entertainment, but, at bottom, even for more reality, than real
life itself can show. Thus, though they want novelty, they want nature,
too; but nature unfettered, exhilarated, in effect transformed. In this
way of thinking, the people in a fiction, like the people in a play,
must dress as nobody exactly dresses, talk as nobody exactly talks, act
as nobody exactly acts. It is with fiction as with religion: it should
present another world, and yet one to which we feel the tie.

If, then, something is to be pardoned to well-meant endeavor, surely a
little is to be allowed to that writer who, in all his scenes, does but
seek to minister to what, as he understands it, is the implied wish of
the more indulgent lovers of entertainment, before whom harlequin can
never appear in a coat too parti-colored, or cut capers too fantastic.

One word more. Though every one knows how bootless it is to be in all
cases vindicating one's self, never mind how convinced one may be that
he is never in the wrong; yet, so precious to man is the approbation of
his kind, that to rest, though but under an imaginary censure applied to
but a work of imagination, is no easy thing. The mention of this
weakness will explain why such readers as may think they perceive
something harmonious between the boisterous hilarity of the cosmopolitan
with the bristling cynic, and his restrained good-nature with the
boon-companion, are now referred to that chapter where some similar
apparent inconsistency in another character is, on general principles,
modestly endeavored to-be apologized for.

 The narrator interrupts with another meta-chapter and gives us some of his thoughts real-talk style. Look, guys--you can't have realism all the time, okay? Just back off and enjoy fiction the way you would a play. And if you think that Frank is an inconsistent character because he was so peppy when talking to Pitch but is super careful when talking to Charlie, well, just shut up and go read what I said before about inconsistency in characters. That is all. Thanks.

