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fortunate is that age which can command no sincere writers, for it possesses no claims on immortality.

One of the most pleasing fruits of sincerity is seen in the author himself. It developes his true power. Stripped of incidental circumstances he appears before us the man, undisguised and natural. He writes, not for interest nor yet indeed merely for pleasure, but because he must. There is something within struggling for existence, and he must develop it. All the fruits of his observation pass through the crucible of his own experience, and come forth pure metal, stamped with his personality. His mind is a mirror which reflects thought and wisdom around the simplicity of everyday actions. The characters and incidents treated of by Charles Dickens, are in themselves oftentimes but trivial, yet his sincerity throws over them a beam of truth which brings to view things before hidden, and renders them more pleasing than weightier themes. It is from this very quality of sincerity that the charm of the most renowned men of letters has flown. By means of it they are enabled to set forth not only those grand themes which belong to intellect, not only the comprehensive interests of humanity in general, but also those lesser themes which belong to individual life.

Sympathy in an author begets a tendency to individualize. The heart takes hold not of races but of individuals. And the comprehensiveness of Charles Dickens is all of the heart. His looks are cyclopedias of biography. Not man only, but Nature assumes personality under his touch. Everything about him is symbolical of human sympathies. Where he writes he forgets Charles Dickens, and becomes for the time the character which is his creation. And so the world only bounds his perceptions, and from his experience are produced new and strange, yet not unnatural individualities. It is this that gives life to his writings. Every man recognizes on every page some home-truth, some characteristic which is his. And thus it is that his sympathy is his genius.

Dickens is eminently an original and powerful writer. His style is all his own. Quaint, humorous and vigorous, it possesses all the elements of power. A single sentence oftentimes conveys a volume of meaning, and a phrase fitly turned, strikes some powerful chord. Men and nature are painted with a master hand, and be the picture never so insignificant we recognize the artist. He is indeed the Hogarth of literature. On every page we recognize truth, and e'er we are aware, his little world has become our own and we are interested persons.

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It is however in the expression of humor and pathos, that his real genius shines forth. His humour is not of that caustic kind which distinguishes Thackeray, but rather of a genial, good-natured character. Like a natural spring, it bubbles and sparkles and finds its way everywhere. It compels laughter and love. Familiar with all oddities of speech, possessing an apt appreciation of the ludicrous, not only in men but in things, he gathers all together to make his humor irresistable. In this less difficult task of describing the humorous he is inimitable; and none the less powerful in the conception and consistent portraiture of humorous characters. The true humorist is a profound metaphysician. He feels instinctively what others attain only by long searching. The springs of human passion lie ever under his gaze. Man surrounded by all possible circumstances has been his study and forms a part of himself. It is from this knowledge of all the traits of character, prominent and minor alike, that Dickens' greatest power springs. While possessing the keenest observation, his own mind furnishes a true criterion by which to address the feelings of others. Frequently, it is true, some peculiar expression or habit is pictured so vividly, and carried through so consistently, that it becomes a source of the humorous. Yet with all his faculty for description, and happiness of expression, his greatest power arises from this profound knowledge of human nature.

His humor is unstudied. The reader is not worried by any preparatory process, nor led to anticipate the result, but all at once comes some mirth-provoking sentence, some ludicrous description, and a smile leads him to enquire the cause. By some he has been called a caricaturist, but unjustly. Caricature dwells only upon peculiarities. But Dickens gives us always the man, consistent, peculiar it may be, yet never unnatural. The very popularity of his works proves their foundation to be firmer than that gained by caricature; to be in the hearts and consciences of those who read.

Few men excel in pathos. Laughter is easily provoked, but a master-hand only can reach the heart. Humor and pathos are nearly related. Children both of human weakness they have a common birth, and shall we not say-a common purpose?-to open the heart. Dickens is the very prince of pathos. With what a practiced eye he reads the soul, probes the feelings and gathers the sum of human suffering? Like Shakespeare Like Shakespeare "he is a tragic poet in the highest sense, being on a par with and the same as Nature in her greatest heights and depths of human suffering. One who durst walk within that mighty circle, treading the utmost bound of nature and passion,

showing us the dark abyss of woe in all its ghastly shapes and colors, and laying open all the faculties of the human soul to act, to think and suffer in direst extremities." His style shows the feeling of the man. Is he serious? Then every sentence shows it. That simple little article on the death of Thackeray, is one of the most beautiful things ever written. Leigh Hunt says, "the sound of music always gives us the feeling of tenderness." This "In Memoriam" is the sweetest, most plaintive music.-A requiem, full of softest pathos stealing gently over our spirits and leaving a sad tenderness. It is

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You remember the character of Barkis in David Copperfield whose stereotyped expression "Barkis is willin," is so provocative of mirth. Yet the source of humor is near by the fountain of tears, and what sublime pathos in that single phrase the last time it is uttered! Through all his life time there came no misfortune, no joy, but “ Barkis was willin," and when at last he trembled on the verge of death, eternity in view, he uttered "Barkis is willin" and "went out with the tide." Three words! They are a volume, expressing Faith, childlike confidence in "Him who doeth all things well." An Epitome of a just life, well written. Dickens' works are full of such expressive pen-pictures.

He is most powerful too in the expression of tragic scenes and characters. Crime is doubly horrid when learned from his pen; and remorse, sorrow, the fiercer and more hateful passions, doubly sad when exposed by his accurate knowledge of humanity. Who but Dickens could have painted Bill Sikes, old Fagin, or Ralph Nickleby? Squeers the hypocrite, or the brute Quilp? Who could cast around a scene such ghastly horror as that morning Sun looked down upon after the murder of Nancy? or tell with such tender pathos of her death when, woman to the last, she loved the hand that killed ?

This, however, is not a pleasing theme; and we willingly turn to consider that love of ideal beauty which furnishes so much of his pathos.

No heart was ever more alive to the charms of virtue, more loving of moral purity, and more serious when thinking of its exposure to vice than that of Charles Dickens. For this reason his finer characters show a tendency to the ideal. The Novelist is twin brother to

* Hazlitt.

the painter. Alike they find their material in nature; alike too they are permitted to be creators, provided only they keep in view their model. That a character is ideal is rather a credit to an author than otherwise. Man loves to look up and gather inspiration from admiration. Let Nature build the foundation and we care not how Art may adorn the superstructure. Can any one ever forget little Nell? A flower by the wayside. A perfect gem in a setting dark. She is the very Desdemona of prose. "Pure as childhood's prayer," she moved through misery and sin with trusting faith, till she reached and ascended

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"Which slopes through darkness up to God."

Had Charles Dickens painted no other character than little Nell, the world would not willingly see him die. Through all his creations, there shines the spirit of the poet; and indeed as a prose-poet he is among the noblest.

The moral influence of an author must be measured in a general way. No single proposition gleaned from his works, no particular sentiment nor special book must be taken as its exponent. It is the essence of his writings, the general impression given, the pictures left in the memory; in a word, their collective influence that must determine their place in literature. We know not that Charles Dickens possesses that essential quality of true manhood,-Christian principle; but we do know that through all his writings there runs a vein of Christian love which cannot but come from a true heart. His works are so humane. They speak to our every day life and feelings. They carry ever with them words of joy for our joy; words of tender sympathy for our sadness.

"Full of harmless laughter, generous wit, frank, manly, human love." There are expressions deserving of censure; opinions which we cannot approve; but human nature is imperfect and errors are to be expected. Reform in various directions has received a new impetus from the writings of Dickens. The interests of the poor, especially, have been the object of his care, and many a warm heart beats gratefully at mention of his name. We cannot forbear quoting a passage from the immortal Thackeray.

"Like pious incense from a censer old," of peculiar value now. Speaking of one of his books he says::-"It seems to me a national benefit, and to every man or woman who reads it, a personal kindness. The last two people I heard speak of it were women; neither knew

the other, or the author, and both said, by way of criticism, "God bless him." What a feeling is this for an author to be able to inspire?”

On the whole the influence of Dickens has been good, and the world is better because he has lived. And so while we drop the willing tear upon the new-made grave at Kensal-Green, there is reason to be thankful that Truth, Justice and Humanity still find an able champion in Charles Dickens.

J. D.

Leaf from Naples.

'Twas plucked by one who climbed with traveller's lust
To Virgil's Tomb, and marked the hour

By Souvenir of leaf and flower

That nodded lowest o'er the sacred dust.

I found within a book the tiny sheaf

Which there had long unheeded lain,
Through many a league of land and main-
And with its story gained my choice, the leaf.

A simple gift it was-not half so bright
As many a leaflet, golden-brown,
That flutters from the maples down,
And soon is trod unnoticed, out of sight;

Nor half so sweet as those that children twine

To crown their blushing May-day queen;
Yet prizes she no more, I ween,

Her wreath, than I this faded leaf of mine:

For while it knew the soft Italian day,

And trembled in the breeze that roves
Sweet-freighted through the orange-groves
That gem the shores of Naples' woundrous bay,

'Twas Nature's tribute o'er the dead remains
Of him who loved her changeful forms,

And sung alike her smiles aud storms,
Yet not through lack of voice for epic strains.

The silent zephyr left its native skies
At Virgil's grave, to voice its grief,

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