clock, whose iron heart beats heavily within his dusty case," and where the tottering old clothes-presses "slink away from the sight" into their melancholy murky corners-is a good instance of this; and yet equally so is the description of the house* in which the Kenwigses, Newman Noggs, and Crowl, have their abode, where the parlour of one of them is, perhaps, “a thought dirtier" (no substantial difference being possible to the eye, the room is left to its own self-consciousness) than any of its neighbours, and in front of which "the fowls who peck about the kennels, jerk their bodies hither and thither with a gait which none but town fowls are ever seen to adopt." Nor can we forget the neighbourhood of "Todgers's," where “strange, solitary pumps were found hiding themselves, for the most part, in blind alleys, and keeping company with fire-ladders."† All these things are thoroughly characteristic of the condition and eccentricity of the inmates, and of the whole street, even as the beadle's pocket-book, “which, like himself, was corpulent." A gloomy building, with chambers in it, up a yard, where it had so little business to be, "that one could scarcely help fancying it must have run there when it was a young house, playing at hide-and-seek with other houses, and have for gotten the way out again ;" and the potatoes, which, after Cratchit had blown the fire, "bubbled up, and knocked loudly at the saucepan lid, to be let out, and peeled"-these are among the innumerable instances to which we have alluded. These descriptions and characteristics are always appropriate; and are not thrown in for the mere sake of fun and farcicality. That they have, at the same time, a marvellous tendency to be very amusing, may cause the sceptic to shake his head at some of these opinions; the pleasurable fact, nevertheless, is in any case quite as well for the author and his readers.

Mr. Dickens' characters, numerous as they are, have each the roundness of individual reality combined with generalization-most of them representing a class. The method by which he accomplishes this, is worth observing, and easily observed, as the process is always the same. He never developes a character from within, but commences by showing how the nature of the

*Nicholas Nickleby, vol. ii., chap. 14. Christmas Carol, p. 18.

+ Martin Chuzzlewit, chap. 9. Ibid., p. 87.

individual has been developed externally by his whole life in the world. To this effect, he first paints his portrait at full-length; sometimes his dress before his face, and most commonly his dress and demeanour. When he has done this to his satisfaction, he feels in the man, and the first words that man utters are the key-note of the character, and of all that he subsequently says and does. The author's hand never wavers, never becomes untrue to his creations. What they promise to le at first (except in the case of Mr. Pickwick, about whom the author evidently half-changed his mind as he proceeded) they continue to the end.

That Mr. Dickens often caricatures, has been said by many people; but if they examined their own minds they would be very likely to find that this opinion chiefly originated, and was supported by certain undoubted caricatures among the illustrations. Le célèbre Cruishank -as the French translator of "Nicholas Nickleby" calls him, appears sometimes to have made his sketches without due reference, if any, to the original. These remarks, however, are far from being intended to invalidate the great excellence of many of the illustrations in "Oliver Twist" and "Nicholas Nickleby," and also of those by Hablott Brown and Cattermole in “Barnaby Rudge" and "Martin Chuzzlewit."

What a collection-what a motley rout-what a crowd-what a conflict for precedence in the mind, as we pause to contemplate these beings with whom Mr. Dickens has over-peopled our literature. Yet there are but few which, all things considered, we should wish to "emigrate." The majority are finished charactersnot sketches. Of those which were most worthy of their high finish many instantly arise in person to supersede the pen. Mr. Pecksniff, sit down! you are not asked to address the chair on behalf of the company. Nor need Sam Weller commence clearing a passage with one hand, and pulling forward Mr. Pickwick with the other nobody can speak satisfactorily for an assemblage composed of such heterogeneous elements. The cordial welcome which would be so very applicable to Old Fezziwig, John Browdie, Newman Noggs, Tom Pinch, and a hundred others, would fall very unintelligibly on the air on turning to the face of Ralph Nickleby, Mr. Brass, Jonas Chuzzlewit, and a hundred others. What variety and contrast, yet what truth, in such char

Iacters as Oliver Twist and Barnaby Rudge, the Yankee agent Scadder, and Hugh, Mr. Varden and Mr. Brass, Nelly's grandfather, and Mr. Stiggins! Nor should we forget Sykes's dog, Kit's pony, and Barnaby's raven. But however excellent our author may be in his men, he is equally so with his women. Mrs. Weller, and Mrs. Nickleby, Mrs. Jarley and Miss Montflathers, Mrs. Gamp, the Marchioness, Mrs. Varden, the widow who accused Mr. Pickwick, the sisters Cherry and Merry, and little Nell, and many more, are all acquaintances for life. In his young lady heroines Mr. Dickens is not equally successful. They have a strong tendency to be unromantically dutiful, which in real life, is no doubt 66 an excellent thing in woman," but it is apt, unless founded upon some truly noble principle, to become uninteresting in fiction. Their sacrifices to duty are generally common-place, conventional, and of very equivocal good, if not quite erroneous. Some of the amiable old gentlemen are also of the description so very agreeable to meet in private life, but who do not greatly advantage the interest of these books amidst the raciness and vigour of which they hardly form the right sort of contrast. With reference to his female characters, however, who are "better-halves," if his portraits be faithful representations, especially of the middle and lower classes-and it is greatly to be feared they are but too true, in many cases-then we shall discover the alarming amount of screws, scolds, tartars, and terma-gants, over whom her Britannic Majesty's liege married subjects male, pleasantly assume to be "lords and masters." France lifts its shoulders at it, and Germany turns pale.

The materials of which the works under our present consideration are composed, are evidently the product of a frequent way-faring in dark places, and among the most secret haunts where vice and misery hide their heads; this way-faring being undertaken by a most observing eye, and a mind exactly suited to the qualities of its external sight. Many and important may be the individual biographical facts; but if ever it were well said of an author that his "life" was in his books, (and a very full life, too,) this might be said of Mr. Dickens. Amidst the variety of stirring scenes and characters which unavoidably surround every one who has duties to perform among mixed classes of mankind, and amidst

the far darker scenes and characters which the bent of his genius caused him to trace out into their main sources and abodes, were the broad masses of his knowledge derived, and the principal faculties of his mind and heart wrought up to their capacious development. When he has not seen it before, he usually goes to see all that can be seen of a thing before he writes about it. To several of the characters he has drawn, objections have often been made, that they were exaggerations, or otherwise not perfectly true to nature. It is a mistake to think them untrue: they are, for the most part, fac-simile creations, built up with materials from the life, as retained by a most tenacious memory. They are not mere realities, but the type and essence of real classes; while the personal and graphic touches render them at the same time individualized. Sometimes, it is true, he draws a mere matter-of-fact common-place reality; and these individuals, like Mrs. Maylie, Mr. Brownlow, Harry Maylie, Mrs. Bedwin, (except when the latter wipes the tears from her eyes, and then wipes her spectacles' eyes by the unconscious force of association,) and several others, are a sort of failure "in a book" where they walk about with a very respectable and rather uncomfortable air.

The delineation of characters constitutes so very much the more prominent and valuable portion of Mr. Dickens' works, that it is extremely difficult to detach them from any view of an entire production. Take away his characters, and the plots of his stories will look meagre and disconnected. He tells a very short story admirably; but he cannot manage one extending through a volume or two. His extended narrative is, in fact, a series of short stories, or pictures of active interest introducing new people, who are brought to bear more or less-scarcely at all, or only atmospherically, sometimes-upon the principals. Perhaps he may not have the faculty of telling a story of prolonged interest but, in any case, he has done right hitherto not to attempt it by any concentrating unity of action. Not any of his characters are weighty enough in themselves to stand "the wear and tear" and carry on the accumulating interests of a prolonged narrative. They need adventitious aids and relief; and most ably and abundantly are these supplied.

The immense circulation of Mr. Dickens' works, both

at home and abroad, and the undoubted influence they exercise, render it an imperative duty to point out everything in them which seems founded in error, and the moral tendency of which may be in any way and in any degree injurious. We are anxious to display his most striking merits- and every fault worth mentioning. Nor do we believe, when looking at the direct and benevolent aim which characterizes all the author's efforts, that such a proceeding can meet with any other feeling on his part than that of a frank approval, even though he may not in all cases be disposed to admit the validity of the objections.

The main design of Mr. Dickens is for the most part original, and he always has a moral aim in view, tending to effect practical good. The moral tendency of all his works is apparent, if they are regarded in their entireness as pictures of human nature, in which no romantic sympathy is sought to be induced towards what is vicious and evil-but antipathy and alarm at present misery and ultimate consequences while a genuine heart-felt sympathy is induced towards all that is essentially good in human nature. This is true of all his works considered under general views; in some of the details, however, the morality becomes doubtful from an undue estimate of conventional duty when brought into collision with the affections and passions. The author always has the purest and best intentions on this score; nevertheless, some of his amiable, virtuous and high-spirited characters break down lamentably, when brought into conflict with society's grave, misleading code on the subject of heart and pocket, or "birth." Thus, Rose Maylie- the beautiful young heroine in "Oliver Twist"-refuses her devoted lover, whom she also loves, merely because she does not know who her parents were, and she is therefore of "doubtful birth," and actually persists in her refusal. Nor is this compromise of the strongest and best feelings of nature to mere conventional doubts the only objectionable part of the story; for the act is spoken of as a fine thing in her to do, as inferring a refined feeling for her lover's honour and future satisfaction, though he, the man himself, declares he is satisfied with what she is, let her origin have been as doubtful or as certain as it might. Being quite assured of his love, she tells him he "must endeavour to forget her"-that he should think of "how C