rare excellence. At the same time, At the same time, as a mere matter of personal judgment, we are inclined to coincide with the aforesaid competent judges. A semi-autobiographical work, Copperfield would naturally possess for its author an interest greater than that attaching to his other works. But authors' opinions on the merits of their own productions are proverbially fallible. Milton preferred "Paradise Lost" to "Paradise Regained." And the latest born is generally the best loved child of genius.

To approach some definite idea as to what the legitimate domain of Charles Dickens was, and to what extent he succeeded in that field, it may be well, as a preliminary consideration, to notify one or two of the paths into which he diverged, and in which his success, though unequivocal, was not to the critic so satisfactory. At different periods he wrote historical novels. "Barnaby Rudge" is written by him. "The Tale of Two Cities" is written by him. It is a much easier task, having read a book, to decide off hand than to assign reasons for a decision. It has long ago been settled that the one necessary feature in an historical novel is not accuracy in the narration of events, or in the marshalling of dates. But there is required an infusion of the spirit of the particular period of history in which the events of the novel are supposed to transpire. Scott understood this. Lytton understands it, and Ainsworth, and Kingsley. Now it seemed a matter of absolute impossibility for Dickens to surround himself with ancient circumstance, or to infuse into his historical work anything of the spirit of the time. He was intensely real. More than that, he was intensely modern. The characters in "Barnaby Rudge" are the every-day people whom he met about the London streets dressed out in the costume of a century ago. And the occasional introduction of an obsolete phrase no more succeeds in proclaiming the character of the dramatis persona than the feathers in Barnaby's hat proclaimed kingship and dominion. The very cause and well-spring of the author's greatness in his own domain was here, when for a moment he had left the track, the cause of his weakness. These words "weakness," "failure," and so forth, which we use here most deferentially, are, of course, comparative terms. Had Dickens never written any other work than "Barnaby Rudge," his claim to the title of great novelist would remain unchallenged. We merely want to assert that his special and characteristic domain was not here, but otherwhere. Again, with great justice it has been asserted and reasserted that the most unreal and almost unrecognisable pictures are those which he draws of members in the higher ranks of life. At this moment we recal the Dedlock set in "Bleak House." The figures are thinly painted. Or rather they seem cut out of pasteboard and fastened on the page. It was in this particular field that Thackeray shone. All his gentlemen

are gentlemen. The Marquis of Steyne at his orgies, Colonel Newcome amid his opulence or his poverty, carry the heads like men, and no feature in the whole picture can possibly for a single moment recal to the mind the lay-figures that are made to do duty as ladies and gentlemen in the London Journal. Having mentioned these two topics, we have exhausted the list of subjectmatter upon which the genius of Dickens less happily exerted itself than elsewhere.

We turn now to consider that sphere in which he was king and lord, having neither equal nor rival. In one word, he may be described as the representative novelist of the great middle class. From the class below that many of his characters-we had almost said the majority of his characters are drawn. The men and women, the boys and girls, that we meet in large cities, these flit across his page oftenest of all. He will find romance and beauty, and a well of truth and religion, in an ignorant crossing-sweeper. And at the death-bed of a country tramp he will cause you to shed bitter tears. And here seemed to be one great doctrine of his-preaching to the great middle class, as we have said, and selecting as his text an humble outcast-that in every child of Adam-how-ragged-soever, there still remains some germ of divinity, some waif and stray of religious truth, and to educe that spark of morality is the happy privilege of those who possess the time, the means, the will. It is a lesson that Englishmen are never tired of hearing. But a lesson in which a much more earnest heed might be given.

When a man strongly and beautifully advocates some glorious charity, or strikingly, yet sweetly, admonishes us as to some shortcoming in the practice of beneficence, it is quite wonderful to mark how vigorously the preacher, an' he preach well, is applauded. What poems of Thomas Hood are the most widely known and the most universally admired? The "Song of the Shirt," doubtless, and the "Bridge of Sighs." And so with the works of Mr. Dickens, we applaud the moral, we deplore the evil, we shake our heads, and pass by on the other side.

In these rough and straggling notes we will unwillingly omit many things which, when the words now written shall appear in print, will recur to us chidingly. But there are two points which we are determined not to slur over, because they are points upon which very silly men have often publicly, in newspapers and upon platforms, said very wicked things. And the first point is this: that Mr. Dickens was in the habit of sneering at religion. This charge is a sufficiently terrible one, and, if unproven, is a gravely criminal one. I once heard a Christian minister, in lecturing to a flock of his, warn his dear hearers against "the blasphemous

vulgarity of Charles Dickens." In studying the natural history of the creature on subsequent occasions, I discovered that the gentleman answered in every particular to the description of Chadband, and he may possibly have

Conceived himself the hero of the story.

At all events, it was impossible at the time to avoid calling to mind what was said by one upon whose head in ordination no bishop's hand had ever been laid-said, too, on an English platform and to an English audience-said, in a word, by Thackeray when lecturing on the Humourists: "I think of these past writers and of one who lives amongst us now, and am thankful for the innocent laughter and the sweet unsullied page which the author of 'David Copperfield' gives to my children.' The cry of "irreligious" has been raised in all times against all men who have spoken or written against hypocrisy and deceit. Fighting with beasts did not cease with apostolic times. And in the warfare waged now against the ruthless opposer of Cant and Sham, there is put forth a tooth more deadly than that of the lion, a bite more poisonous than that of the adder. And the fact that this loud but insignificant sectarian rancour was roused by the direct preaching of Dickens, renders more timely and graceful the tribute publicly paid to his memory a few Sundays ago by the Dean of Westminster.

The second point is this. It is alleged that there is a mocksentimentality in Dickens which induces him to picture children's death-beds and the like at times when the exigencies of the novel do not demand the scene. This charge (if, indeed, charge it can be called) was first brought by a writer in the Cambridge Essays, and has been fashionable ever since among essayists of a Saturday-Review turn of mind. The answer to the statement is,

of

course, this counter-assertion, that such scenes do not occur with the alleged frequency, and that they do not occur when the narrative does not call for them. That man must, indeed, have a mind either thoroughly bedimmed with conceit, or entirely degraded with more enormous vices, who can see nothing tender and touching in the narrative of the deaths of Paul Dombey or Little Nell, and who rises unaffected from their perusal.

It is a sad and solemn reflection for us now that he who painted these death-bed scenes with such singular grace and power, should himself have been hurried away from existence without the opportunity of conversing with those who, gazing at his unconscious face, stood by his bedside while the spirit returned to God who gave it.

July-VOL. CXLVII. NO. DXCV.

WILLIAM MACKAY.

H

THE DREAM PAINTER.

BY DR. J. E. CARPENTER.

BOOK I.
I.

ON THE RHINE.

It was on a clear, calm summer evening, in the year 1835, that a youth of apparently about twenty years of age stood in the quiet square of the old Rhine town of Bonn, gazing on the statue of the great master, Beethoven, that had been placed there some little time before to do honour to his memory, and to prove to the stranger that, in Germany at least, a prophet has honour in his own country, and that there a man need not be a military hero to command a statue in his native town.

Any one could perceive, as the youth lingered lovingly on the spot, or loitered under the trees which are planted on all sides of the space, of which the figure of the great musician stands solemnly in the centre, that he was no casual observer; that he regarded it with an artist's eye, even if he did not hear rushing through his memory some of those celestial melodies that are destined to reecho through ages yet to come.

It is seldom that a natural taste for the fine arts is unassociated with a love for music; the painter is frequently a musician also, invariably so in feeling; there is an intimate connexion between the visible forms of nature and the invisible forms of harmony; a sort of mysterious link between sight and sound. Most likely, then, Leopold Sternemberg, the young artist who lingered under the lindens while he scanned the figure of the master, the head elevated, the right hand extended and holding a pen, the left grasping a manuscript book, and the whole contour of the figure displaying a form full of grace and dignity, was recalling some of the melodies of the old man musical, and revolving in his mind the wonderful career that, beginning at the early age of five, made itself a power through Europe for nearly half a century, and then lapsed to the world-a legacy that, like Shakspeare's, or his own countryman's, Schiller, shall endure for ever.

It may have been, too-for youth is ambitious, and perfection in any art is never acquired unless stimulated by ambition-that Leopold felt within himself a power that should lead him some day to deserve of his fellow-countrymen a similar mark of recognition;

a boy's day-dream, perhaps, but not incompatible with one who had worked hard and begun early his artist life, and had already transferred to the canvas some highly-finished sketches which gave evidence of a skill and dexterity far beyond his years.

Whatever may have been the musings of the young dreamer, they were suddenly broken by loud shouts of wild laughter which proceeded from a street leading into the square, and a minute afterwards a long string of carriages, filled with students of the university, rolled by.

They were evidently returning from "a day out," and as they neared home they struck up, without any preconcerted signal, one of those thrilling choruses which are so popular in the studentland, and which only a choir of young Germans know how to sing.

Familiar enough to the regular inhabitants of the town, that joyous cortége had something in it very attractive to the eyes of strangers, from whom this quaint old Rhine town is at no portion of the year entirely free. True, the rickety carriages very much resembled those let out to hire at some of the English wateringplaces, and the quadrupeds which propelled them matched the vehicles in all respects, and were not much to look at; but, to make amends for this, the occupants themselves were extremely picturesque. Most of the students wore caps, beautifully made, and comprising in the aggregate all the colours of the rainbow. Some were of bright scarlet, relieved with vine-leaves in gold; some of blue, ornamented with silver; but what would strike the stranger most was the variety of the pipes, many of them of enormous size, with which every one of the revellers was armed. From these there issued thin columns of blue smoke, which, uniting together as the carriages rolled on in a thin gauzy cloud, rendered evident by the calmness and clearness of the atmosphere, gave to the whole a very weird appearance, and left in their wake a transitory floating cloud.

As the carriages filed off out of the square, Leopold received many a nod of recognition from the occupants; for though now an artist by profession, or, if truth must be told, a drawing-master, he had himself, until very lately, shared in their studies and sometimes in their revelries; consequently he was known to many.

In spite of the invitation of several to join them in a beerdrinking, which is the usual finish up of these festive occasions, and during which they discuss theology, tell old Rhine legends, and sing songs about "fatherland," never omitting the inevitable chorus, Leopold declined, shook his head, and let the procession. roll on.

"There he goes for a dreamer," said one of Leopold Sternem