hearted comedy of the Restoration fled before him, and, like the wicked spirit in the fairy-books, shrank, as Steele let the daylight in, and shrieked and shuddered and vanished. The stage of humorists has been common life ever since Steele's and Addison's time, - the joys and griefs, the aversions and sympathies, the laughter and tears, of nature.

And here, coming off the stage, and throwing aside the motley habit or satiric disguise in which he had before entertained you, mingling with the world, and wearing the same coat as his neighbors, the humorist's service became straightway immensely more available, his means of doing good infinitely multiplied, his success, and the esteem in which he was held, proportionately increased. It requires an effort of which all minds are not capable, to understand Don Quixote; children and common people still read Gulliver for the story merely. Many more persons are sickened by Jonathan Wyld1 than can comprehend the satire of it. Each of the great men who wrote those books was speaking from behind the satiric mask I anon2 mentioned. Its distortions appall3 many simple spectators; its settled sneer or laugh is unintelligible to thousands who have not the wit to interpret the meaning of the visored satirist preaching from within.

Many a man was at fault about Jonathan Wyld's greatness, who could feel and relish Allworthy's goodness in Tom Jones, and Dr. Harrison's in Amelia, and

dear Parson Adams, and Joseph Andrews. We love to read-we may grow ever so old, but we love to read of them still of love and beauty, of frankness and bravery and generosity. We hate hypocrites and cowards; we long to defend oppressed innocence, and to soothe and succor gentle women and children; we are glad when vice is foiled, and rascals punished; we lend a foot to kick Blifil down stairs; and, as we attend the brave bridegroom to his wedding on the happy marriage-day, we ask the groomsman's privilege to salute the blushing cheek of Sophia.

A lax morality in many a vital point I own in Fielding; but a great hearty sympathy and benevolence, a great kindness for the poor, a great gentleness and pity for the unfortunate, a great love for the pure and good,

these are among the contributions to the charity of the world with which this erring but noble creature endowed it.

As for Goldsmith, if the youngest and most unlettered person here has not been happy with the family at Wakefield; has not rejoiced when Olivia returned, and been thankful for her forgiveness and restoration; has not laughed with delighted good-humor over Moses' gross of green spectacles; has not loved with all his heart the good vicar,2 and that kind spirit which created these charming figures, and devised the beneficent fiction which speaks to us so tenderly,-what call is there for me to speak? In this place, and on this occasion,

1 Tom Jones, Amelia, and Joseph Andrews are three of Fielding's greatest novels.

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2 vicar. What is the distinction between a parson and a vicar"? See Webster.

remembering these men, I claim from you your sympathy for the good they have done, and for the sweet charity which they have bestowed on the world.

As for the charities of Mr. Dickens, multiplied kindnesses which he has conferred upon us all, upon our children, upon people educated and uneducated, upon the myriads here and at home who speak our common tongue, have not you, have not I, all of us, reason to be thankful to this kind friend, who soothed and charmed so many hours; brought pleasure and sweet laughter to so many homes; made such multitudes of children happy; endowed us with such a sweet store of gracious thoughts, fair fancies, soft sympathies, hearty enjoyments? There are creations of Mr. Dickens's which seem to me to rank as personal benefits, figures so delightful, that one feels happier and better for knowing them, as one does for being brought into the society of very good men and women. The atmosphere in which these people live is wholesome to breathe in; you feel that to be allowed to speak to them is a personal kindness; you come away better for your contact with them; your hands seem cleaner from having the privilege of shaking theirs.

Was there ever a better charity-sermon preached in the world than Dickens's Christmas Carol? I believe it occasioned immense hospitality throughout England; was the means of lighting up hundreds of kind fires at Christmas-time; caused a wonderful outpouring of Christmas good-feeling, of Christmas punch-brewing, an awful slaughter of Christmas turkeys, and roasting and basting of Christmas beef. As for this man's love

of children, that amiable organ at the back of his honest head must be perfectly monstrous. All children ought to love him. I know two that do, and read his books ten times for once that they peruse the dismal preachments of their father. I know one, who, when she is happy, reads Nicholas Nickleby; when she is unhappy, reads Nicholas Nickleby; when she is in bed, reads Nicholas Nickleby; when she has nothing to do, reads Nicholas Nickleby; and when she has finished the book, reads Nicholas Nickleby over again. This candid young critic at ten years of age said, "I like Mr. Dickens's books much better than your books, papa;" and frequently expressed her desire that the latter author should write a book like one of Mr. Dickens's books. Who can? Every man must say his own thoughts, in his own voice, in his own way: lucky is he who has such a charming gift of nature as this, which brings all the children in the world trooping to him, and being fond of him!

I remember when that famous Nicholas Nickleby came out, seeing a letter from a pedagogue in the North of England, which, dismal as it was, was immensely comical. "Mr. Dickens's ill-advised publication," wrote the poor schoolmaster, "has passed like a whirlwind over the schools of the North." He was a proprietor of a cheap school: Dotheboys Hall was a cheap school. There are many such establishments in the Northern counties. Parents were ashamed, that never were ashamed before, until the kind satirist laughed at them; relatives were frightened; scores of little scholars were taken away; poor schoolmasters had to shut

their shops up; every pedagogue was voted a Squeers (and many suffered, no doubt, unjustly): but afterwards schoolboys' backs were not so much caned; schoolboys' meat was less tough, and more plentiful; and schoolboys' milk was not so sky-blue. What a kind light of benevolence it is that plays round Crummles and the Phenomenon, and all those poor theater-people, in that charming book! What a humor! and what a good humor! I coincide with the youthful critic whose opinion has just been mentioned, and own to a family admiration for Nicholas Nickleby.

One might go on, though the task would be endless and needless, chronicling the names of kind folks with whom this kind genius has made us familiar. Who does not love the Marchioness and Mr. Richard Swiveller? Who does not sympathize, not only with Oliver Twist, but his admirable young friend the Artful Dodger? Who has not the inestimable advantage of possessing a Mrs. Nickleby in his own family? Who does not bless Sairey Gamp, and wonder at Mrs. Harris? Who does not venerate the chief of that illustrious family, who, being stricken by misfortune, wisely and greatly turned his attention to "coals," the accomplished, the epicurean, the dirty, the delightful Micawber?

I may quarrel with Mr. Dickens's art a thousand and a thousand times: I delight and wonder at his genius; I recognize in it-I speak with awe and reverencea commission from that Divine Beneficence, whose blessed task we know it will one day be to wipe every tear from every eye. Thankfully I take my share of