He was, moreover, a "novelist of purpose" in the highest degree; he had very strong, but very crude--not to say absurd--political ideas; and he was apt to let the great powers of pathos, of humour, of vivid description, which he possessed to "get out of hand" and to land him in the maudlin, the extravagant, and the bombastic.
But--to put ourselves in connection with the main thread of our story once more--he not only himself provided a great amount of the novel pleasure for his readers, but he infused into the novel generally something of a new spirit.

It has been more than once pointed out that there is almost more danger with the novel of "getting into ruts" than with any kind of literature.

Nobody could charge the Dickens novel with doing this, except as regards mannerisms of style, and though it might inspire many, it was very unlikely to create a rut for any one else.

He liked to call himself "the inimitable," and so, in a way, he was.
Imitations of him were, of course, tried: but they were all bad and obvious failures.

Against the possible tameness of the domestic novel; against the too commonly actual want of actuality of the historic romance; he set this new fantastic activity of his, which was at once real and unreal, but where the reality had a magical touch of the unfamiliar and the very unreality was stimulating.