that he will descend to future times, and in this point of view he will be valuable to the future dramatist and historian to supply them with the manners and peculiarities of that class of mankind which constitutes the majority of the human race.

Mr. Dickens in private life is good-tempered and hospitable; he has a striking face; his hair is dark and long; his eye, which is the great fact of his countenance, is hazel; he is rather under the middle size, is neatly made, and very active; his favorite time for composition is in the morning; he writes till about one or two; lunches, then takes a walk for a couple of hours, returns to dinner, and gives the evening to his own or a friend's fireside.

He is a very gay dresser-eschews collars-rejoices in bright scarlet rolling facings to his waistcoat-is as fond of rings and gold chains as a Mosaic Jew. Indeed he dresses in a manner which, if indulged in by another, would inevitably call forth some of his genial banter. He is fond of country dances and similar amusements. By his own fireside he is as pleasant and companionable as his warmest admirer could wish: his conversation, however, is not what might be expected from a man so justly celebrated: he tells a story well, and with ever fresh variations or humorous exaggerations. He is a strong admirer of Tennyson and Browning; we have heard him declare that he would rather have written the Blot in the 'Scutcheon" than any work of modern times. We have heard similar high admiration expressed on the other side of the Atlantic. Taking this for what it is worth, it still shows how highly that unpopular poet is esteemed by some of the leading intellects of England and America.

Mr. Dickens lives in good style in the Regent's Park, and is reported to live "not too wisely, but too well." Men of quick feelings and ardent sympathies are not expected to be Cocker's Arithmetic in the flesh, or to have the calculating mind of a London or a New-York merchant.

He abominates argument; delights in walking the crowded. thoroughfares of life, and noting the humors of his fellow-creatures. He has a strong sympathy with all the oppressed classes, and has no toleration for the misanthrope or the cold-hearted aristoerat. He now and then administers a little gentle rebuke to affectation, in a pleasant but unmistakeable manner. We remember an instance where he silenced a bilious young writer, who was inveighing against the world in a very "forcible, feeble manner;" during a pause in this philippic against the human race, Dickens said across the table, in the most self-congratulatory of tones: “I say, what a lucky thing it is you and I don't belong to it? It reminds me," continued the author of Pickwick, "of the two men, who on a raised scaffold were awaiting the final delicate attention of the hangman; the notice of one was aroused by observing that a bull had got into the crowd of spectators, and was busily employed in tossing one here, and another there; whereupon one of the criminals said to the other, 'I say, Bill, how lucky it is for us that we are up here.'

In general, however, his remarks are not happy. Notwithstanding this apparent theoretical sympathy with the lower classes, he pays an absurd deference to men of rank, and thinks no dinner table complete without a lord, or a very rich merchant or banker. This has been decidedly injurious to his writings; it has cramped his hand and checked the thunder in mid volley."

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A little anecdote will illustrate this "amiable weakness" better than a lengthened disquisition.

An acquaintance of his, calling one morning upon a celebrated writer, distinguished for his plain speaking, was astonished by the latter saying, in his most plaintive Scotch, in the course of conversation, Poor Dickens! I am sorry for him; I could have better spared a better mon!" "You amaze me," replied the other, “why, I saw him last week, in good health. For God's sake tell me all

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about it when did he die ?" "Die, mon!" roared the philosopher,

I never said he was dead; I meant that it was all over with him

as a great author.” "What do you mean?" inquired the visiter. “Why, I mean this, he has dined with a real live lord, and it's in the newspapers! I say again, I am truly sorry for poor Dickens!"

His most intimate companions are Mr. Macready, Forster, Rogers, Landon, Harley and Talfourd; his acquaintance, however, extends throughout the whole range of the literary circles.

Notwithstanding the attention he receives from a few of the nobility, such as Earl Carlisle, Denman and Ashley, he is unpopular with the fashionable circles, and is merely asked as they would invite Tom Thumb, the Siamese Twins, or any other lusus naturæ, merely to increase the dramatic attractions of the evening; but the weakness of feeling flattered by the attentions of rank or wealth, is a common failing with most men, especially when they have sprung from a humble class in society, and where the mind is deficient in the highest qualities, or not fortified by great self-respect; of this latter requisite, Mr. Dickens has less than most men so widely renowned. To sum up his capabilities in a few words: as a man, he is good-tempered, vain, fickle, which makes him at times appear to be insincere; on the other hand, it must in justice be stated that he forgets with kindly facility an offence; but the impression on the minds of those who have known him longest is, that he is deficient in all those striking qualities of the heart which sanctify the memory of man. As an author, we have given our opinion of him, and stated our reasons. A few years will probably modify his position as compared with such writers as Carlyle, Browning, Tennyson, Miss Barrett, Bailey, and many other of his contemporaries. He will, however, always hold a commanding position in his own peculiar department of composition.

We must not forget to mention that, misled by his fame, Mr. Dickens tried his hand on dramatic composition, and wrote a farce,

which was acted at the Lyceum. As might be expected, from his want of constructive power, it was unequivocally condemned; this settles the question as to the author of Copperfield being a writer of the first class. It is a curious fact that all the first intellects of the age have been progressive; now with the writer before us, his first two works are unmistakeably his best.

In 1846 Mr. Dickens was persuaded by some friends to become the editor of a newspaper called the "Daily News," then about to be established as a rival to the "Times," on the liberal side of politics. On January 26th, of that year, the first number appeared, but after conducting it for three or four weeks the novelist found the pursuit distasteful, and retired from its management. It was said, at the time, that his salary was one hundred pounds per week, an amount equal, we are told, to an entire year's pay of many men of talent for editing leading daily papers in New-York.

THOMAS NOON TALFOURD.

The author of Ion" is a very singular instance of the power of circumstance to elevate a man to a considerable station in literature, without the possession of any exclusive qualifications. Totally destitute of poetical genius, he has risen to be considered as a successful dramatist; and while others have struggled for years to get their noble tragedies on the stage, without success, the writer of such artificial elaborations as "Ion" and "Glencoe," has no difficulty at all in the matter; nevertheless, there is no instance of any of the learned Sergeant's plays being any more than endured. It is certainly an anomaly in human nature that the theatrical world appear to prefer a dramatist, or a manager, in proportion as he has failed. On what other principle can we regard the conduct of the proprietors of Drury Lane, who invariably prefer Mr. Bunn to any other lessee, although it is notorious that they seldom or never get their rent from him. Every attempt has been a total and scandalous failure.

The father of Mr. Talfourd was a respectable brewer in Reading, and married the daughter of Mr. Thomas Noon, a dissenting minister, who having officiated over an independent congregation of that town for thirty-three years, died only a few days previous to the birth of his grandson, which took place on the 26th January, 1795.

Having passed through the earlier years of childhood, he was sent to the Protestant Dissenting Grammar School at Mill Hill,