at a dinner given to him at Edinburgh, and in reply to an allusion to Nell by Professor Wilson, that as the work approached a close, and the fate he intended for her broke on the minds of his readers, he received numerous letters remonstrating against his purpose. He was inflexible; and afterwards they were foremost in approving his determination. It is proper that the tender flower-before it is prematurely blighted by the winds and snows of winter-should be transplanted to a more genial clime, where it may flourish in immortal freshness. When little angels are lent to the world, it is but for a short period: they are soon recalled to the more peaceful society of heaven. They said Nell would be an angel before the birds sang again. The Spring arrived that beautiful and happy time-and the birds renewed their songs; but, "She was dead. No sleep so beautiful and calm, so free from trace of pain, so fair to look upon. She seemed a creature fresh from the hand of God, and waiting for the breath of life; not one that had lived and suffered death.

"She was dead. Dear, gentle, patient, noble Nell was dead. Her little bird-a poor slight thing the pressure of a finger would have crushed-was stirring nimbly in its cage; and the strong heart of its childmistress was mute and motionless forever.

"Where were the traces of her early cares, her sufferings, and fatigues? All gone. His was the true death before their weeping eyes. Sorrow was dead indeed in her, but peace and perfect happiness were born; imaged in her tranquil beauty and profound repose.

"Oh! It is hard to take to heart the lesson that such

deaths will teach, but let no man reject it, for it is one that all must learn, and is a mighty universal Truth. When Death strikes down the innocent and young, for every fragile form from which he lets the panting spirit free, a hundred virtues rise, in shapes of mercy, charity, and love, to walk the world, and bless it with their light. Of every tear that sorrowing mortals shed on such green graves, some good is born, some gentler nature comes. In the Destroyer's steps there spring up bright creations that defy his power, and his dark path becomes a way of light to Heaven."

If we

I have said that Mr. Dickens is the most popular of living authors. Will he retain his popularity? is a question which it would be difficult to answer. attempt to answer it, we must not forget that he owes his popularity as much to his selection of subjects, as to his ability as a writer. He gives us graphic delineations of the impulses, habits, and passions of individuals and classes; and reveals the mysteries, and excites the finest sympathies of human nature, in connection with scenes of the deepest interest, and the manifestation of his own true regard for his fellowman. He has a deep and genuine love of the beautiful in man and in nature. Dr. Lever-author of Charles O'Malley-is thought by some readers to be superior to Dickens as a writer. He has a free, manly, dashing mode of sketching life, manners, and humorous incidents; but for the attainment of a wide-spread popularity, it is one thing to sketch scenes in the Peninsular War, and at Lady Richmond's ball; and quite a different thing to describe Dotheboys Hall, and Oliver,

and little Nell. It was said, five years since, by an English writer, that, "The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club is regarded as his great work by which -if ever-the names of Boz and Dickens are to descend to posterity." That writer must have felt proud of his prophetic skill as he read, in succession, Oliver Twist, Nicholas Nickleby, and the Old Curiosity Shop.

The continuance of the popularity of Dickens, as an author, will depend on the answer to three questions. Has he the ability to continue to write fiction as good as the above mentioned works? Would such works continue to interest the public, in an equal degree? If, from want of ability to continue to produce, or from satiety in his readers, he fail in his own peculiar species of composition, could he find, or create another road to popularity? At the age of thirty, and carried along by the flowing tide of popular favour, these questions cannot be answered. His last workBarnaby Rudge-is not equal to its three nearest predecessors: but no man of genius, whether conversationist, orator, or writer is, on every occasion, equal to himself. The great Homer sometimes nods. We cannot, with Dr. Johnson, define genius as, A mind of large general powers accidentally determined by some particular direction; as this is, more properly, a definition of universal genius. In another place he describes genius with more accuracy, as, The power of mind that collects, combines, amplifies, and animates; the energy, without which judgment is cold, and knowledge is inert. But the mind of Dickens is scarcely matured. He has not yet arrived at the age beyond

which, Dr. Johnson says, the mind never advances, inasmuch as the powers of nature have attained their intended energy. Unless he tax his powers too far, the age of forty, or forty-five will present him to us in full intellectual manhood. If he have only one rich vein in his mine, and works that day and night, the abundance of the precious metal will not continue to reward the toil of the miner. The mind of Shakspeare was inexhaustible: it was, as Ben Jonson finely says, the sphere of humanity. Goethe compares his characters to watches with dial-plates of transparent crystal, which shew the hour, and enable us to see the inward mechanism. It has been said that the fertile genius of Shakspeare as a poet, and that of Bacon as a philosopher, exhausted the whole world of nature. But the mines of intellect, like those of the natural world, must be worked with judgment. Our modern Hogarth writes too often and too fast; taking advantage, I suppose, of that tide in the affairs of men which leads to fortune. I have no doubt that one prominent motive which prompted him to visit this country, was a consciousness that his mind had been overworked, and required rest and a new train of associations. Like Scott, he indulges too much in the impromptu style of writing. The facility with which a given amount of extempore composition is produced, increases by habit: the quality is a very different matter. Literary men might recollect, with advantage, the remark of Bentley, who, when a critic threatened to write him down, replied, No author was ever written down but by himself. The advice of Horace to an

author is to keep his book nine years in his study, that he may review and correct. Gray's Elegy has perhaps been more read and admired than any composition in the English language. The author commenced the piece seven years before it was completed: it has had many imitators, but has never been equalled. Shakspeare and Milton would never have been the glory of England if they had not thought with intensity before they wrote. Such were the labour and enthusiasm of Milton, that he refused to abandon one of his works, notwithstanding he was assured by his physicians that its completion would produce a loss of his sight.

Some are disposed to predict the failure of Dickens: comparing him, perhaps, to a noble three-year-old which accomplishes wonderful feats on the course, and then "lets down." Others think he has "bottom" as well as speed. Scott was more than thirty years old when he commenced his Metrical Romances. The public interest in his poetry was maintained beyond half a score of years; and when it began to manifest satiety, his Prose Romances appeared, and procured for their author the title of The Great Magician. When he wrote Waverly he was forty-two years old; at the present age of Mr. Dickens he was unknown to fame. At that age he was Sheriff of Selkirkshire: twelve years later he commenced the works which made him Sir Walter Scott, Baronet, of Abbotsford. Goldsmith was near his fortieth year when he published his most popular poems. Milton had passed his half century before he began the composition of Paradise Lost; and