all their force by the reporter; and the only way to do this effectually-with such modulations of voice, &c., as are suitable to each word and passage-is to fix his mind earnestly on the meaning, and leave nature and habit to suggest the utterance.

Some may, perhaps, suppose that this amounts to the same thing as taking no pains at all; and if, with this impression, they attempt to try the experiment of a natural delivery, their ill-success will probably lead them to censure the proposed method for the failure resulting from their own mistake. In truth, it is by no means a very easy task to fix the attention on the meaning, in the manner and to the degree now proposed. The thoughts of one who is reading anything very familiar to him are apt to wander to other subjects, though perhaps such as are connected with that which is before him. If, again, it be something new to him, he is apt (not, indeed, to wander to another subject, but) to get the start, as it were, of his readers, and to be thinking, while uttering each sentence, not of that, but of the sentence which comes next. And in both cases, if he is careful to avoid these faults, and is desirous of reading well, it is a matter of no small difficulty, and calls for a constant effort to prevent the mind from wandering in another direction, viz., into thoughts respecting his own voice, respecting the effect produced by each sound, the approbation he hopes for from the hearers, &c. And this is the prevailing fault of those who are commonly said to take great pains in their reading-pains which will always be taken in vain with a view to the true object to be aimed at, as long as the effort is thus applied in a wrong direction. With a view, indeed, to a very different object, the approbation bestowed on the reading, this artificial delivery will often be more successful than the natural. Pompous spouting, and many other descriptions of unnatural tone and measured cadence, are frequently admired by many as excellent reading, which admiration is itself a proof that it is not deserved; for when the delivery is really good, the hearers (except any one who may deliberately set himself to observe and criticise) never think about it, but are exclusively occupied with the sense it conveys and the feelings it excites.

Still more to increase the difficulty of the method here recominended (for it is no less wise than honest to take a fair view of difficulties), this circumstance is to be noticed, that he who is endeavouring to bring it into practice is in a great degree precluded from the advantage of imitation. A person who hears and approves a good reader in the natural manner may, indeed, so far imitate him with advantage as to adopt his plan of fixing his attention on the matter, and not thinking about his voice; but this very plan, evidently by its nature, precludes any further imitation; for if, while reading, he is thinking of copying the manner of his model, he will for that very reason be unlike that model; the main principle of the proposed method being carefully to exclude every such thought. Whereas any artificial system may as easily be learned by imitation as the notes of a song.

Practice also (ie., private practice for the sake of learning) is much more difficult in the proposed method; because the rule being to use such a delivery as is suited, not only to the matter of what is said, but also, of course, to the place and occasion-and this, not by any studied modulations, but according to the spontaneous suggestions of the matter, place, and occasion, to one whose mind is fully and exclusively occupied with these-it follows that he who would practise this method in private must, by a strong effort of vivid imagination, figure to himself a place and an occasion which are not present; otherwise, he will either be thinking of his delivery (which is fatal to his proposed object), or else will use a delivery suited to the situation in which he actually is, and not to that for which he would prepare himself. Any system, on the contrary, of studied emphasis and regulation of the voice may be learned in private practice as easily as singing.

XXII. CHARLES DICKENS.

CHARLES DICKENS was born in 1812 at Landport, Portsmouth, where his father, during the war, held an office in connection with the navy. Young Dickens was educated for the law, but, disgusted with the necessary preliminary studies, he abandoned the profession, and became a parliamentary reporter. His first work, his "Sketches by Boz." appeared in the Morning Chronicle, and were published in 1836, and the succeeding year. In 1837 he began the work which at once placed him at the head of all contemporary novelists, "The Pickwick Papers." It was published in monthly parts, and its overflowing humour, happy delineation of character, and warmth and kindness of feeling, rendered it universally popular. "Pickwick" was followed by "Nicholas Nickleby," in which the same excellences were exhibited, with greater perfection in the management of his plot. "Oliver Twist had scenes of deeper interest than either of his preceding works; in "Master Humphrey's Clock" we have the finest of all Dickens's female characters, "Little Nell;" "Barnaby Rudge," part of " Humphrey's Clock," contains Dickens's only attempt at historical painting in the style of Scott, in which he has been highly successful. Dickens next produced his "American Notes," to the great scandal of our Transatlantic brethren; and these were followed by his "Martin Chuzzlewit," which contains some of his best drawn characters. In 1843 he issued his "Christmas Carol;" and at succeeding returns of the same genial season appeared "The Chimes," ""Cricket on the Hearth,' "Battle of Life," and "The Haunted Man," light but kindly productions, in admirable keeping with the season. His other novels are "Dombey and Son," "David Copperfield," "Bleak House," "Hard Times," and "Little Dorrit." Dickens was also for some time editor of "Bentley's Magazine," of the Daily News," and subsequently of "Household Words," and at present edits a periodical entitled "All the Year Round." The popularity of Dickens has been almost unbounded, his works have enjoyed an enormous circulation,

and have been translated into almost every European language. In ability to pourtray character to the life, he is universally admitted to be worthy of being ranked with Scott, while in broad humour and fun no English writer can be compared to him. His hasty composition, and the desire to produce effect, have betrayed him into several faults; he is apt to draw caricatures rather than characters, and to indulge in an affected style of sentiment, by no means attractive to readers of good taste. It is to be hoped that his future works may exhibit a return to the genial and less artificial style of his earlier writings.

166

1. BURIAL OF A PAUPER.- OLIVER TWIST.")

The next day, Oliver and his master returned to the miserable abode, where Mr Bumble, the beadle, had already arrived, accompanied by four men from the workhouse who were to act as bearers. An old black cloak had been thrown over the rags of the old woman and the man; the bare coffin, having been screwed down, was then hoisted on the shoulders of the bearers, and carried down stairs into the street.

"Now, you must put your best leg foremost, old lady," whispered Sowerberry, the undertaker, in the old woman's ear; we are rather late, and it won't do to keep the clergyman waiting. Move on, my men, as quick as you like."

Thus directed, the bearers trotted on under their light burden, and the two mourners kept as near them as they could. Mr Bumble and Sowerberry walked at a good smart pace in front; and Oliver, whose legs were not so long as his master's, ran by the side.

There was not so great a necessity for hurrying as Mr Sowerberry had anticipated, however; for, when they reached the obscure corner of the churchyard, in which the nettles grew, and the parish graves were made, the clergyman had not arrived, and the clerk, who was sitting by the vestry-room fire, seemed to think it by no means improbable that it might be an hour or so before he came. So they set the bier down on the brink of the grave; and the two mourners waited patiently in the damp clay, with a cold rain drizzling down, while the ragged boys, whom the spectacle had attracted into the churchyard, played a noisy game at hide-and-seek among the tombstones, or varied their amusements by jumping backwards and forwards over the coffin. Mr Sowerberry and Bumble, being personal friends of the clerk, sat by the fire with him, and read the paper.

At length, after the lapse of something more than an hour, Mr Bumble, and Sowerberry, and the clerk, were seen running towards the grave; and immediately afterwards the clergyman appeared, putting on his surplice as he came along. Mr Bumble then thrashed a boy or two, to keep up appearances; and the reverend gentleman, having read as much of the burial-service as could be compressed into four minutes; gave his surplice to the clerk, and ran away again.

66

DEATH OF PAUL DOMBEY.

529

Now, Bill," said Sowerberry to the gravedigger, "fill up." It was no very difficult task; for the grave was so full that the uppermost coffin was within a few feet of the surface. The gravedigger shovelled in the earth, stamped it loosely down with his feet, shouldered his spade, and walked off, followed by the boys, who murmured very loud complaints at the fun being over so soon.

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Come, my good fellow," said Bumble, tapping the man on the back, "they want to shut up the yard."

The man, who had never once moved since he had taken his station by the grave-side. started, raised his head, stared at the person who had addressed him, walked forward for a few paces, and then fell down in a fit. The crazy old woman was too much occupied in bewailing the loss of her cloak, which the undertaker had taken off, to pay him any attention; so they threw a can of cold water over him, and when he came to, saw him safely out of the churchyard, locked the gate, and departed on their different ways.

"Well, Oliver," said Sowerberry, as they walked home, "how do you like it?"

"Pretty well, thank you, sir," replied Oliver, with considerable hesitation. "Not very much, sir."

"Ah! you'll get used to it in time, Oliver," said Sowerberry.— "Nothing when you are used to it, my boy."

Oliver wondered in his own mind whether it had taken a very long time to get Mr Sowerberry used to it; but he thought it better not to ask the question, and walked back to the shop, thinking over all he had seen and heard.

2. DEATH OF PAUL DOMBEY.—(" DOMBEY AND SON.")

Paul had never risen from his little bed. He lay there, listening to the noises in the street, quite tranquilly; not caring much how the time went, but watching it, and watching everything about him with observing eyes. When the sunbeams struck into his room through the rustling blinds, and quivered on the opposite wall like golden water, he knew that evening was coming on, and that the sky was red and beautiful. As the reflection died away, and a gloom went creeping up the wall, he watched it deepen, deepen, deepen into night. Then he thought how the long streets were dotted with lamps, and how the peaceful stars were shining overhead. His fancy had a strange tendency to wander to the river, which he knew was flowing through the great city; and now he thought how black it was, and how deep it would look, reflecting the hosts of stars-and more than all, how steadily it rolled away to meet the sea.

As it grew later in the night, and footsteps in the street became so rare that he could hear them coming, count them as they passed, and lose them in the hollow distance, he would lie and watch the many-coloured ring about the candle, and wait patiently for day.

His only trouble was, the swift and rapid river. He felt forced, sometimes, to try to stop it-to stem it with his childish hands-or choke its way with sand—and when he saw it coming on resistless, he cried out. But a word from Florence, who was always at his side, restored him to himself; and leaning his poor head upon her breast, he told Floy of his dream, and smiled.

When day began to dawn again, he watched for the sun; and when its cheerful light began to sparkle in the room, he pictured to himself-pictured?-he saw the high church towers rising up into the morning sky, the town reviving, waking, starting into life once more, the river glistening as it rolled (but rolling fast as ever, and the country bright with dew. Familiar sounds and cries came by degrees into the street below; the servants in the house were roused and busy; faces looked in at the door, and voices asked his attendants softly how he was. Paul always answered for himself, “I am better. I am a great deal better, thank you! Tell papa so!" By little and little, he got tired of the bustle of the day, the noise of carriages and carts, and people passing and repassing; and would fall asleep, or be troubled with a restless and uneasy sense again— the child could hardly tell whether this were in his sleeping or his waking moments—of that rushing river. Why, will it never stop, Floy?" he would sometimes ask her. "It is bearing me away, I

think."

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But Floy could always soothe and reassure him; and it was his daily delight to make her lay her head down on his pillow, and take some rest. "You are always watching me, Floy. Let me watch you now!" They would prop him up with cushions in a corner of his bed, and there he would recline the while she lay beside him; bending forward oftentimes to kiss her, and whispering to those who were near that she was tired, and how she had sat up so many nights beside him. Thus the flush of the day, in its heat and light, would gradually decline; and again the golden water would be dancing on the wall.

He was visited by as many as three grave doctors—they used to assemble downstairs, and come up together-and the room was so quiet, and Paul was so observant of them (though he never asked of anybody what they said), that he even knew the difference in the sound of their watches. But his interest centred in Sir Parker Peps, who always took his seat on the side of the bed. For Paul had heard them say long ago, that that gentleman had been with his mamma when she clasped Florence in her arms, and died. And he could not forget it now. He liked him for it. He was not afraid. The people round him changed as unaccountably as on that first night at Dr Blimber's-except Florence; Florence never changed-and what had been Sir Parker Peps was now his father, sitting with his head upon his hand. Old Mrs Pipchin, dozing in an easy-chair, often changed to Miss Fox, or his aunt; and Paul was quite content to shut his eyes again, and see what happened next without emotion. But this figure with its head upon its hand