Nineteen years ago a very respectable authority stated that Mr. Charles Dickens "the most popular writer of his day." His popularity was then based upon the success of "Sketches by Boz," the "Pickwick Papers," ""Nicholas Nickleby," and "Oliver Twist"-the two last novels at he 66 and penetrates the gloom which surrounds them with the sunshine of manly compas sion. In his character, genial humor and a quick sense of the ridiculous are blended with touching pathos and great love of sim. plicity and truth. He venerates pure recant and hypocritical assumption of some ligion, but justly despises the snivelling who seek to hide their corrupt heartsnurtured in "hatred, malice and all uncharitableness"-beneath the garb of an austere and unbending Christianity. He is unsparing, but never vindictive or morose-sarcastic, but not cynical-pahe ridicules, but not to wound the sensi thetic, but never mawkishly sentimental; tive; he is quick to perceive evil and as prompt to attack it, yet never misanthropic; he has a disposition to exaggerate, but is natural and unaffected even in his exag that time in course of publication in month ly numbers. Nineteen years, - during which Mr. Dickens has held continuous and familiar intercourse with the public of Europe and America, has but added to the truthfulness of the Reviewer's opinion, and in the preface to "Little Dorrit" he informs us, as on previous occasions, that never had so many readers." In the United States-notwithstanding a tem-geration; he possesses the rare gift of ability to write precisely as he feels, and porary prejudice, caused by some sharp his feelings are always good-always behits in the Notes on America," which for nevolent. He adopts with ease the "moththe moment wounded our national vanity— Mr. Dickens has won upon the affections er-tongue"-the "slang," the "Sanscrit" of the people more than any other author, fined; in his portrayals of character-from of each variety of people-refined or unreand, owing to the numerous and cheap reprints of his works, has, probably, five times as many readers as in Great Britain. In Germany, France, and other parts of continental Europe, translations of "Martin Chuzzlewit," "Bleak House," &c., are almost as common as the originals with us, and their author as thoroughly appreciated; in fact "Boz" has attained a celebrity more universal than even that of Sir Walter Scott. Mr. Dickens is remarkable for keen perception of character, and strong good sense-joined to descriptive faculties unequalled since the days of Smollett and Fielding. He is also a humanitarian in the strictest sense of the word, and has ever before him the object of reforming existing abuses. Like Thackeray or Jerrold, he possesses great sarcastic power, but his sarcasm is never used merely for display or as a vent for bitterness of spirit; his attacks are invariably directed against foolish or dangerous social or individual habits, or grievous wrongs which are the result of bad legislation or an illegitimate Public Opinion. Mr. Dickens always respects the poor and oppressed-the sick and afflicted-for them he has gentle words and bright hopes; he touches their hearts with the overflowing sympathy of his own, the rudest and most uncouth to the most the language and the individual or class is highly cultivated-the connection between perfect; the slightest peculiarities of idiom or expression are rendered distinctly and character and incidents better than places, with wonderful accuracy. He describes and scenes in the city more naturally than rifies the murky atmosphere of the workscenes in the country, though he often pubeautiful flowers, and lets in through the house or the prison with the fresh scent of cracks and seams of the gloomy gates of unfettered birds, to cheer the weary and bright gleams of sunshine and sweet sounds the heart-sick. His descriptions of distressing incidents-such as the death of the old pauper in "Oliver Twist "-are painfully minute; not a word, not a look, not a gesture escapes him; he feels allgenerous sympathy, heightens the effect of presents all-and, influenced by his own all; yet, -"though the light Enter not freely-the eye of God Mr. Dickens does not merely paint character-he analyses it; he pictures a rough, coarse, ignorant boor, apparently without when he has presented the portrait, so that sensibility-wholly gross and brutal-and it appears to the ordinary observer complete, he pours a flood of light suddenly into the recesses of the rough man's heart, and displays some trait of instinctive del-restrained as a child's-entirely without "Feels for the wrong to universal ken Daily exposed, woe that unshrouded lies; He is a genuine democrat; his stories are The popularity of Mr. Dickens is not ephemeral; it will be transmitted to posterity with his writings and his history, for his sound sense has ever saved him from sacrificing a permanent good to a present success. He has always retained his modesty amidst the whirl of popular applause, and, though fond of rational approbation, he is without conceit: in proof of this we are told that a short time ago, after reading his Christmas Carol at St. Martin's Hall, when vociferously called for, "his countenance wore the pleased expression of a boy's"-his pleasure was caused by find ing the same perfect sympathy between "Boz" and his auditors that had long existed between "Boz" and his readers; his gratification was as innocent and un The occasion referred to was a reading given in London by Mr. Dickens, with characteristic benev olence, for the benefit of the family of the late Douglas Jerrold. One of the highest claims of Mr. Dickens to distinction, is the fact that he has successfully inaugurated an original style of composition. He holds colloquial intercourse with his readers, and writes his stories as though he was telling them. He is perfectly familiar, yet his familiarity never "breeds contempt." He exposes the lowest depths of misery and sin, in the language and with the characteristics of each, yet is instinct with delicacy: he not only conveys ideas in print, but feeling and expression. He is suggestive without being obscure; sarcastic without being bitter; humorous without effort; simple without being foolish; graphic and terse in style;-in short, he is the man who, above all others, addresses the great heart of humanity in its own language. Critically speaking, Charles Dickens has It may not be ami ss here to call attention to the tion,) it is well, while duly appreciating the excellencies of a writer, not altogether to ignore his defects;-feeling should be subservient to reason. During the last twenty years Mr. Dickens has received a meed of praise which would have considerably inflated any one less sensible than himself: but he has never been above profiting by honest suggestions, from any source and hence the progressive improvement of his style. He has not yet got rid of all his faults, nor is he, we believe, less ready to profit by candid criticism than he was twenty years ago. We therefore, before taking leave of himadopting his latest production (Little Dorrit) as the basis of our observations-shall speak briefly but unreservedly of what to us appear its chief excellencies and defects. "Little Dorrit," the heroine of the story -"whose first draught of air was tinctured with Dr. Haggage's brandy"-was born in the "Marshalsea,"-one of the numerous gloomy dens in which, until within a few years, the enlightened British Government allowed remorseless creditors to immure delinquent debtors for life, or (in most cases about the same thing) until their debts were paid. In this "black hole" of London, then, "Little Dorrit" was born and "brought up," and at the time the story properly begins, she has become a "little woman," preternaturally grave and earnest, quiet, enduring, and devoted to her surviving parent, the "Father of the Marshalsea." How she struggled and toiled in secret for her father; how she deprived herself of common necessaries to contribute to his comfort; how she bore with his peevishness and irritability, and in the fullness of her love looked upon his selfish sensitiveness to any allusion to his position as merely the assertion of a natural dignity; how she watched over a flippant sister and a reckless brother;— how, when times of sunshine came she was still the same "little woman"-not like her father, brother, and sister-frenzied by prosperity-but her thoughts ever reverting to her old home, to her old friends and companions;-how, for the sake of those she loved, she tried to be high and haughty, but how her own innocent heart, which had expanded in the darkness of the Marshalsea, like a rose in the desert, rendered the effort useless ;-how, in adversity and in prosperous days, she kept the secret of her love for Clennam close in her own bosom, and how she struggled against that love, and when a dark hour came, and Clennam was thrust into that same Mar shalsea, where he had formerly been a visiting angel to her old father;-how she left the world and its gayeties, and flew like a Nightingale to his side;-how at last the clouds cleared away and the sun shone bright and warm again, and how the "little woman" and Arthur were married "with the sun shining on them through the painted figure of our Saviour on the window," and how they "went down into a modest life of usefulness and happiness" all this is described in the author's hap piest style. But the character is unnatu ral. Such heroines, born in such prisons, and educated amidst such associations as was "Little Dorrit," are never found in real life, and the tendency of indulging the imagination by elevating a woman into a sort of angel in low life, however beautiful and free from the idea of “angels with wings" which an extensive class of modern literature is diluted with, the picture may be, is to create a false estimate of the purity of human nature. Little Dorrit also is in some respects but a re-production of Little Nell. Arthur Clennam, though not so attractive, is a far more reasonable character. His generosity, his strong sense of principle, his abhorrence of vice, and his unselfishness, we see sometimes illustrated in common experience; but we must protest against the conceptions of Flintwich, Affery, and Mrs. Clennam-their eccentric and unaccountable behavior; the "mysterious noises in the old house," &c.—as marring the effect of the narrative by their obscurity. An old woman, sitting bolt upright in a chair for fifteen or twenty years, professing a hard and gloomy Christianity and keeping within her breast the secret of a crime, which she justifies to the last upon the score that she is a dealer-out of God's vengeance upon earth-is too severe a criticism, even upon the most stubborn and rigid of religious fanatics. Besides, the character is a mere skeleton, surrounded with a repelling atmosphere of blackness; and that of Flintwich is still more misty, while Affery is incomprehensible. The "two clever ones " by no means add to Mr. Dickens' reputation for cleverness. The "Circumlocution Office" and the Barnacle" family are an admirable satire upon the proverbial slowness of certain branches of the British Government, and the monopoly of numerous offices by influential aristocratic families. "Whatever was required to be done, the Circumlocution Office was beforehand with all the public departments in the art of perceiving— HOW NOT TO DO IT." * * * "Mechanicians, natural philosophers, sol- when they went "before their Father, far diers, sailors, petitioners, memorialists- beyond the twilight judgments of this world people with grievances, people who want--high above its mists and obscurities;—all ed to prevent grievances, people who want this is a sad and truthful illustration of the ed to redress grievances, jobbing people, hollowness of that vanity of vanities — that jobbed people, people who couldn't get re- most pernicious of evils, the pride of caste, warded for merit, and people who couldn't the conceit of earthly position. Pancks-a get punished for demerit-were all indis- puffing, snorting steam engine, is an excelcriminately tucked up under the foolscap lent type of a certain class of our own counpaper of the Circumlocution Office," and trymen-hard, dry, practical, always on the "numbers of people were lost in the Cir- go; a sharp collector and first-rate "genecumlocution Office." * * * "The ral man of business"-commonly presenting Barnacle family had for some time helped his rough side, but kind hearted at bottom. to administer the Circumlocution Office. He is a character worth studying. Mr. The Tite Barnacle Branch, indeed, con- Casby is Mr. Pecksniff, in another phase, sidered themselves in a general way as nothing more. His daughter, Flora, is a having vested rights in that direction, and libel even upon the romantic and sentitook it ill if any other family had much to mental damsels of these days. Blandois say about it." Daniel Doyce, an excellent is a good specimen of the sardonic Machiaspecimen of the intelligent, patient and vellian, Italian villain. Imagine Dr. Ricpractical mechanic, was foolish enough to cabocca's idea practicalised, and you have "perfect an invention (involving a very him exactly. Mr. Dickens need not have curious secret process) of great importance attempted to defend that "extravagant conto his country and his fellow-creatures." ception," Mr. Merdle, by any reference to Instead of corning to the United States, or an "Irish Bank." Merdles figure quite some other country where there is no Cir- conspicuously in the history of San Fran. cumlocution Office, he added to his folly cisco, from the time of Ward to the present. by attempting to secure a patent in his own country. Consequently he got into the Circumlocution Office, and thereupon he was referred by this Mr. Barnacle to that Mr. Barnacle-tossed from this Committee to that Committee-subjected to rigid examinations before powdered Barnacles and Stiltstockings, who "muddled the business, addled the business, tossed the business in a wet blanket," and finally left the business precisely where they had found it. It was only after years of perseverance, and then more through good luck than any thing else, that poor Doyce-who had grown weary and worn, though he was always cheerfulrealized the benefit of his genius. The whole conception is admirable, and, we observe, has considerably ruffled the feathers of the Barnacles and Stiltstockings of Great Britain.* Old Mr. Dorrit is an exaggerated delineation, but, on the whole, a good one. His desire to keep up his family dignity, while in the Marshelsea for so many years -his pompous, though childish pride when he became wealthy; his constant fear of any reference to the past; his return in his delirium, just before death, to the scene of his long imprisonment; to his old clinging to his faithful Little Dorrit, and the close of his life and that of his brother See a late number of the Edinburgh Review. We have thus briefly alluded to what we consider the principal merits and demerits of Little Dorrit. We have been compelled to neglect some points, well worthy of notice, but for this, a want of space must be an excuse. The sum of our conclusion is, that there is a great want of connection in the plot; that its simplicity is marred by many useless incumbrances lugged in among the dramatis persona; that there is much exaggeration in characters and incident. But the hit of the Circumlocution Office is, in our judgment, among the choicest of Mr. Dickens' sarcastic efforts, and in minute description of delicate traits of character-of eccentricities and peculiarities, social and individual, we consider "Little Dorrit" the best of his works. On the whole, it is a production which will add, if possible, to the high reputation and popularity of its author. We cannot in justice close this notice of Mr. Dickens, without calling attention to the simplicity, veracity and catholic spirit which distinguish his "Child's History of England." It is par excellence the book of English history for American children to study. Interesting, full of accurate information, clothed in an agreeable style, and breathing throughout a tone of the purest morality, it is, of all other similar works, best calculated to leave permanent and liberal impressions upon the youthful mind. We hope to see it general among the homes | THE PIONEER'S THANKSGIVING. of California. We confess to a feeling of regret as we put aside the last volume of "Little Dorrit," and temporarily, we hope, bid its gifted author adieu. Charles Dickens has so won upon our affections, during his eminently successful and useful career, that we feel an earnest desire to hold constant intercourse with him. We cannot better express our feelings and those of the masses of the people, than by saying in his own simple and expressive language-"May we meet again." MOUNTAIN MEDITATIONS. How charming 'tis in pensive mood, To roam o'er mountains wild and high, Whose lofty peaks, sublime though rude, Seem interlocked with cloud and sky ;To learn the philosophic lore They teach-to gaze on and admire May find and gather wealth untold; How sweet it is, to backward trace The course we've trod in days agone, And scan in thought, each fair young face We once rejoiced to look upon; To think how full of hope and joy Our hearts were in our youthful years, Ere bliss seem'd mix'd with care's alloy, Or smiles had given place to tears. How sad it is, alas! to know, That she-my dear Louise, on whom My first young love I did bestow, Far hence is mouldering in the tomb! The bright blue eye, the shining tress, Were my delight-but now 'tis o'er; Can feel no more-ah! nevermore! And deemed to come from realms above, Is treasured in this heart of mine, Like virtuous woman's tender love. Bidwell, Cal B. B. BY DOINGS. Here we are again, my pen and mebut I am wrong, so far as the pen is concerned, in saying again, for it is the first appearance of this pen which will introduce itself to you through this communication, and I trust will prove an agreeable and pleasant acquaintance. My old pen, the one that has stood by me so long, and has so often transferred my thoughts to paper, and been the acting medium between myself and others, and which has so often spoke to you, my unknown friends, in silent words, performed its last duties yesterday. Although disabled and maimed, in consequence of a fall which it received some time since, it would not give up; and, in fact, from an attachment which I always entertain for an old friend, I did not wish it, and so we worked away together until yesterday, when it became subject to spasmodic kicks, and I then knew that we soon must part. I disliked even then to give it up, but as I looked upon its almost helpless condition, my compassion overcame the attachment, and I have laid it away where it shall rest in quiet undisturbed. And now, with my new pen, I propose to write of Thanksgiving, and, mayhap, a few words of home, for ere another number of the Magazine is issued this year's Thanksgiving day will have passed. Sitting here I chanced to think that Thanksgiving day would soon come, and in my mind I was led to draw a comparison between Thanksgiving day at home and in California; and as I sat and thought, I remembered how, during the past nine years, as our annual Thanksgiving day came 'round, I had often done the same thing, and how that last year I said to myself, "Doings, we'll have a Thanksgiving dinner any how!" and how I went without lunch in order to get up a big appetite; and, about five, P. M., feeling sufficiently sharkish, I entered a restaurant, and, divesting myself of overcoat, hat and cane, dropped into a chair beside a little table, and, spreading out as large as possible, rapped for a waiter; a young man with a dirty napkin in one hand, and several unclean dishes in the other, answered the call, and stood beside me. "Turkey," said I, "and mind there's plenty of it, with all the fixins." The young man soon returned The man who "footed his bill," is said and covered my little table with dishes, to be a shoemaker. one of which contained quite a quantity of |