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unworthy of his graphic pencil. We extract his concluding sentences:

Farewell to Italy.

by its father's name, and asked it all manner of fantastic questions concerning him, in the joy of her heart. It was something of a blow to the little woman, that when we were within twenty miles of our destination, it became clearly necessary to put this baby to bed. But she got over it with the same good-humour, tied a Beyond the walls [of Florence] the whole sweet valley handkerchief round her head, and came out into the of the Arno, the convent at Fiesole, the tower of Galileo, little gallery with the rest. Then, such an oracle as she Boccaccio's house, old villas, and retreats; innumerable became in reference to the localities! and such facetious- spots of interest, all glowing in a landscape of surpassing ness as was displayed by the married ladies, and such beauty steeped in the richest light, are spread before us. sympathy as was shewn by the single ones, and such Returning from so much brightness, how solemn and peals of laughter as the little woman herself (who would how grand the streets again, with their great, dark, just as soon have cried) greeted every jest with! At mournful palaces, and many legends-not of siege, and last there were the lights of St Louis, and here was the war, and might, and Iron Hand alone, but of the wharf, and those were the steps; and the little woman, triumphant growth of peaceful arts and sciences. covering her face with her hands, and laughing (or seeming to laugh) more than ever, ran into her own cabin and shut herself up. I have no doubt that in the charming inconsistency of such excitement, she stopped her ears, lest she should hear 'him' asking for her-but I did not see her do it. Then a great crowd of people rushed on board, though the boat was not yet made fast, but was wandering about among the other boats to find a landing-shew so poor and small, and are so soon forgotten. place; and everybody looked for the husband, and nobody saw him, when, in the midst of us all-Heaven knows how she ever got there!-there was the little woman clinging with both arms tight round the neck of a fine, good-looking, sturdy young fellow; and in a moment afterwards there she was again, actually clapping her little hands for joy, as she dragged him through the small door of her small cabin to look at the baby as he lay asleep!

In the course of the year 1843, Dickens entered upon a new tale, Martin Chuzzlewit, in which many of his American reminiscences are embodied. The quackeries of architects are admirably ridiculed in the character of Pecksniff; and the nurse, Mrs Gamp, with her eidolon, Mrs Harris, is one of the most finished and original of the author's portraits. About Christmas of the same year the fertile author threw off a light production in his happiest manner, A Christmas Carol, in Prose, which enjoyed vast popularity, and was dramatised at the London theatres. A goblin story, The Chimes, greeted the Christmas of 1844; and a fairy tale, The Cricket on the Hearth, was ready for the same genial season in 1845. These little annual stories are imbued with excellent feeling, and are redolent of both tenderness and humour. A residence in Italy furnished Dickens with materials for a series of sketches, originally published in a new morning paper, The Daily News, which was for a short time under the charge of our author: they were afterwards collected and republished in a volume, bearing the title of Pictures from Italy, 1846. It is perhaps characteristic of Dickens that Rome reminded him of London !

We began in a perfect fever to strain our eyes for Rome; and when, after another mile or two, the Eternal City appeared, at length, in the distance, it looked like

I am half afraid to write the word-London. There it lay under a thick cloud, with innumerable towers, and steeples, and roofs of houses rising up into the sky, and high above them all, one dome. I swear that, keenly as I felt the seeming absurdity of the comparison, it was so like London, at that distance, that if you could have shewn it me in a glass, I should have taken it for nothing else.

Though of the slightest texture, and generally short, these Italian pictures of Dickens are not

What light is shed upon the world at this day, from amidst these rugged palaces of Florence! Here, open to all comers, in their beautiful and calm retreats, the ancient sculptors are immortal, side by side with Michael Angelo, Canova, Titian, Rembrandt, Raphael, poets, historians, philosophers-those illustrious men of history, beside whom its crowned heads and harnessed warriors Here, the imperishable part of noble minds survives, placid and equal, when strongholds of assault and defence are overthrown; when the tyranny of the many, or the few, or both, is but a tale; when pride and power are so much cloistered dust. The fire within the stern streets, and among the massive palaces and towers, kindled by rays from heaven, is still burning brightly, when the flickering of war is extinguished, and the household fires of generations have decayed; as thousands upon thousands of faces, rigid with the strife and passion of the hour, have faded out of the old squares and public haunts, while the nameless Florentine lady, preserved from oblivion by a painter's hand, yet lives on in enduring grace and truth.

Let us look back on Florence while we may, and when its shining dome is seen no more, go travelling through cheerful Tuscany, with a bright remembrance of it; for Italy will be the fairer for the recollection. The summer time being come; and Genoa, and Milan, and the Lake of Como lying far behind us; and we resting at Faido, a Swiss village, near the awful rocks and mountains, the everlasting snows and roaring cataracts, of the Great St Gothard, hearing the Italian tongue for the last time on this journey: let us part from Italy, with all its miseries and wrongs, affectionately, in our admiration of the beauties, natural and artificial, of which it is full to overflowing, and in our tenderness towards a people naturally well disposed, and patient, and sweet-tempered. Years of neglect, oppression, and misrule, have been at work, to change their nature and reduce their spirit; miserable jealousies fomented by petty princes to whom union was destruction, and division strength, have been a canker at the root of their nationality, and have barbarised their language; but the good that was in them ever, is in them yet, and a noble people may be one day raised up from these ashes. Let us entertain that hope! And let us not remember Italy the less regardfully, because in every fragment of her fallen temples, and every stone of her deserted palaces and prisons, she helps to inculcate the lesson that the wheel of Time is rolling for an end, and that the world is, in all great essentials, better, gentler, more forbearing, and more hopeful as it

rolls!

and resided several summers in France; and his The novelist afterwards visited Switzerland, letters written during these residences abroad, have all the liveliness, humour, and interest of his published works. In 1848 appeared his novel of Dombey and Son, and in 1850, David Copperfield, perhaps the most perfect, natural, and agreeable of his novels. In this story, Dickens introduced much of his own life and experience, his father

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