And hark-the starry harmony remote

Seems measuring the height from whence it fell."

Here the pure womanly imagination diminishes the colossal horror of satanic will and intellect, and throws an ideal robe, woven of pity, over the thunder-scarred form of the king of Evil. Yet, amid this subtilty of feeling, there is a simplicity of thought and expression working through, which relieves it from the abstractedness, otherwise, its inseparable defect. The following sketch will illustrate my meaning:

"Adam.-Night is near!

"Eve.-And God's curse nearest. Let us travel back,

And stand within the sword glare till we die:
Believing it is better to meet death

Than suffer desolation.

"Adam.-Nay, beloved!

We must not pluck death from the Maker's hand

As evil we plucked the apple; we must wait
Until he gives death as he gave us life :

Nor murmur faintly o'er the primal gift,

Because we spoilt its sweetness with our sin."

How intellectualized becomes the heart of Eve beneath the poet's hand. How tremblingly downward sensitive nature grows at her voice.

Eve thus apostrophises the past.

"For, was I not,

At that last sunset scene in Paradise,

When all the westerd clouds flashed out in throngs

Of sudden angel faces, face by face,

All hushed and solemn, as a thought of God
Held them suspended-was I not, that hour,
The Lady of the world-princess of life,
Mistress of feast and favor? Could I touch
A rose with my white hand, but it became
Redder at once? Could I walk leisurely
Along our swarded garden, but the grass
Tracked me with greenness? Could I stand aside

A moment underneath a cornel tree,
But all the leaves did tremble as alive

With songs of fifty birds, who were made glad
Because I stood there? Could I turn to look

With these twain eyes of mine, now weeping fast,

Now good for only weeping-upon man,

Angel or beast, or bird, but each rejoiced

Because I looked on him? Alas! alas!"

"The Drama of Exile" is a Greek drama of desolation. It has beauty of time, thought and action. Its opening strain is mystical, sad and solemn: and this beautiful vision of a woman's brain is rendered visible to the same mournful music of joys lost for ever. The haunting memories of Paradise cling to every tone, and steep in the profoundest sorrow the breasts of the Exile: yet a sublime consolation rises from its very depth and abandonment, and the crowned and sceptred majesty of grief dignifies the sufferers.

The loftier attributes of human nature rise majestically from the grave of pleasure.

From this mystical gloom we will follow Miss Barrett, and listen to the Pythoness, her fit having passed away, as the English maiden in her bower, singing a pleasant song.

CHARLES DICKENS.

This popular author was born in February, 1812, at Rochester; and passed his early years beneath the shadow of that fine old well-preserved ruin, the castle, wandering on the banks of the Medway, or listening (we strongly suspect, outside) to the chaunting of the cathedral service.

His father, who was a clerk in the Chatham dock-yard, retiring on a pension some years after, came to London, where his celebrated son finished the little education he ever received; he was then articled to a solicitor in Bedford Row, where he formed the acquaintance of a reporter engaged in the "Morning Chronicle." He soon grew disgusted with the drudgery of the desk's "dead wood," and exchanged it for the more exciting life of the public press. He, therefore, became one of the staff of the leading liberal journals, the paper already named.

Here his sagacity, quickness, and, above all, his skill in seizing on the prominent features of a subject, made him one of their most useful attaches, and he was generally despatched to attend the most important political meetings.

In the "Chronicle" appeared those clever sketches which first made the name of "Boz" known to the world; this soubriquet he had given to his youngest brother, Augustus, whom he called Moses, which, corrupted into Boses, finally became "Boz," and, as a

remembrance of fondness for the child, he resolved to adopt it as his literary name. These sketches are too well known to need any distinct criticism; the surprising minuteness of their details, the ingenuity with which he selects peculiarities, and by humorous exaggeration carries them into the world of caricature, made him at once the favorite author of those who read only to be amused. It may be doubted whether these sketches will not be his chiefest passport to fame in future times; unable to construct a symmetrical plot, his larger works grow tedious; compelled, by the very nature of his plan to publish his chapters separately, he has confined the artistic unity of his novel to the ephemeral necessity of producing something very piquant for every number; the great effects are, therefore, frittered away in the progress of the work, and the crowning interest of the climax is divided among twenty numbers, published at stated intervals: this unfortunate dilution of an originally strong article is avoided in his first production, and the "sketches" will probably always remain as a record of the life of the lower classes of England.

His next work was a smart brochure, entitled "Sunday under three heads," to which he placed the assumed name of "Timothy Sparks." Here he lays bare, with an unsparing hand, the hollowness of that pharasaical sect which endeavored, by legislation, to enforce the gloom of a puritanic fast on the christian's cheerful Sabbath. This work, which is not generally known, had prefixed to it an ironical dedication to the Bishop of London, who had rendered himself busy in the matter. There are many admirable sketches in this little volume, full of point and bitter truth: such as the description of a "fashionable congregation of miserable sinners," where the levity, foppery and millinerism of the whole assembly of "prayerful persons" are depicted with much power and sarcasm. A picture in this sketch, of a father fetching home the Sunday dinner from the baker's, with all his little one's haili. him as he

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coat tails flying back, may be seen any day two or three doors down Leadenhall-street, and immediately facing the office of the self-satisfied and arrogant merchant who sat for the portrait of Dombey. When the first number appeared the likeness was readily recognized by this wealthy merchant's relatives, and he was christened Dombey on the spot; he himself was not averse to the high distinction of being the hero of a work by so popular a writer as Mr. Dickens:" we ourselves have seen him blandly smile as the allusion has been made in his hearing; but as the work proceeded, and the heartless mercenary character of a London merchant was unfolded, his face grew tragically dismal at the slightest reference to what had formerly fed his pride! Alas! poor little human nature, how dreadful to thy ear is the truth when presented by another!-well did the Scotch exciseman show his far-sighted knowledge of the heart of man when he wrote

"Oh would some gentle power gie us

To see ourselves as others see us!"

But perhaps in both cases it would only wound self-love, and not kill the slumbering devil! We cannot help in this place remarking, that when Mr. Dickens commenced "Dombey" he stated to several that, in his new work, it was his intention to expose the arrogance and pride of every English merchant, with an eye to the correction of those notorious vices. It is evident to all that he either lacked the courage or the power to achieve so great and praiseworthy an object. It has resulted in the miserable failure of grossly libelling and caricaturing one person, and thus narrowing a great public object to a private end. Had the castigator of the Yorkshire schoolmasters, the paid magistrates, the imposter architects, the dandy milliners and the grinding usurers, possessed the nerve to teach the arrogant merchants of London that their clerks and dependents were worthy better