Dickens affords, is his acute sense of the ridiculous, and his kind nature. The former, in spite of its activity, can hardly be said to throw a warm sunlight on the scene; nor can it pretend to the high claims of Falstaff's intellect. Again, his kind nature is scarcely positive enough to relieve his reader from the deadening sense of the loathsomeness around him. It extends to all, from Nell to Tom Short, and the dancing dogs; and thus is too nearly allied to the ridiculous to be quite a sufficient guide through the haunts of misery and vice. Besides, is it too much to say, that it as often sinks into an indolent and undistinguishing sympathy with suffering, as it rises into a bold and self-forgetting benevolence?

To many of our readers these remarks will appear severe; to some, we fear, unwarrantable. As to the former, let them remember, that the simple intention of this paper has been to raise the question of the practical good or evil of such publications, which the reader must answer for himself, according to Mr. Southey's rule. Thus a minute analysis of their merits as well as their defects was not needed. Omission of them does not constitute a denial of their existence. But a yet more serious misapprehension may occur. Once for all, then, let it be stated, that we have no thought of associating Mr. Dickens with Sir E. Bulwer and Lord Byron, in whose company he has been accidentally mentioned. He is free from the sensualism and idle sentiment of the one; he does not paint profligate gentlemen, and "women who can sympathize with virtue without being virtuous." And unless kindly feeling and sympathy can exist together with their contraries, he is as far from the pride and selfishness of the other. Yet at the same time it is quite possible that in the matter which he treats, the exciting apparatus

which he employs, and in his representation of gross vice, there may be (perhaps independently of himself) the same danger, though in a less degree, which exists in writings positively hurtful. But those amongst our readers, who are most jealous over Mr. Dickens' good fame, would not hail with greater pleasure than ourselves, a work worthy of his kind heart and excellent talents. Nor do we forget the impression which the few fine touches visible in his present publications wrought in us. One present defect, we think at least may be attributed to his circumstances. Mr. Dickens seems to have been thrown back from what he would call "the religious world," upon the indefinite and undogmatical religion of his own naturally good heart. The routine of prayer meetings, and subscription lists, and "moral pocket-handkerchiefs" does not satisfy him. But this cannot last much longer. A generation of stouter men has appeared, whose high bearing and severe wisdom must compel their fellows into reverence or open defiance. Those who have seen in the story of Poor Nell a glimpse of a brighter and purer atmosphere, will acknowledge that our author is ready to bow to worshipful men, when they shall appear, and to trace on his page the bold outline of their shadow.

THE BATTLE OF SEMPACH.*

Round the leaguered walls of Sempach ride the Austrians at their

ease,

For they think the helpless burghers must surrender, when they please.

* Vide Coxe's House of Austria, vol. 1. ch. IX. or, "Historical Parallels." (Libr. Entert. Know.)

Haughty Tierstern says in scoffing, "Here's a halter for your mayor"

"Send a breakfast to the reapers-Austrians reap your crops out

there."

Answered then the sturdy warder, "Yes, Sir knight! my masters

haste,

Bringing all you want from Lucern-they have cater'd, you shall taste."

Then he shook his keys, and pointed to the forest overhead"Our allies are close at hand, Sir; time it is, that blood be shed.”

Tierstern looked; he saw the points of mountain halberts flashing

fair,

And a thousand faces stooping, and a thousand foreheads bare:

Quick he spurred from Sempach's gates, with menace lightning in

his eye,

Bearing in his o'ercharg'd breast the whole of Swabian chivalry.*

Quick he rode, and with a war-cry gave King Leopold the word"Mount, my liege! look up-the rebels"—and that army's heart was stirred.

On a quiet band of peasants clustered on the green hill-side,
On a mass of wooden targets, glance the looks of knightly pride:

Uri, Schwitz, and Unterwalden, have sent forth their scanty host, Sworn on Tell's free memory-sworn by steep Morgasten's† holy boast,

Sworn to keep their rocks and valleys in the freedom of their sires, Firmer than the snow-clad peaks, and fiercer than the tempest-fires.

* Τυδεύς "Αρην Αἰτωλὸν ἐν τέρνοις ἔχει.-Phoeniss. v. 134.

† At Morgasten, the Swiss Thermopylæ, they first beat the Austrians, 70 years before the victory of Sempach,

"Ah! the serfs are bending lowly; they are yielding, but too late." "No, my liege! they sue not thee-they ask not thee to change

their fate;

"For I've heard my father tell me, they were kneeling just as low— "They were praying at Morgasten, to their Maker, not their foe." "Let them pray," the stern king mutters; "let them pray, and

we will fight:

"Bid the abbot of Einsiedlen tell his beads to help the right.

"Onward, gallant Sirs! what recks it, though we fight a-foot today?

Through the brushwood and the gullies horsemen could not make

their way.

"Leave we by the lake our chargers-think no scorn of spurless

heels,

King or knight must act the vassal, when with vassal herds he

deals."

On they marched. But some were doubting; Schaumberg grudged his sovereign's life

Grudged to risk the blood of Hapsburg on a mean and easy strife.

Hasenburg had weighty reasons-he would bide the morrow's sun"Better have Boustetten with us, ere the battle is begun."

Cheerily and stoutly then the monarch flung those doubts aside;
His the hope that broke misgivings, as a swimmer breasts the tide ;
His the heart that must have thriven on the virgin-love of war,
Or been split with iron thoughts, and passion panting at the core.

Now the fight is joined the Switzers, banded in a living wedge,
Strike against those bristling masses, rush against that spiky hedge.

Down come old two-handed swords, and axes marked with many a dint,

But they jar against the lances, powerless as the sunbeams' glynt.

Six-foot spears, alas! can baffle those hereditary blows;
Better hack at yonder pine-trees, than at such stiff thorny foes.

Lucern's hoary-haired Landamman* runs upon a steady lance-
He hath fall'n with three score round him; not a Switzer can
advance.

Melchthalt charges with his grand-sire's glorious halbert waved on high,

Strikes a hundred fruitless blows, and only makes the sparkles fly.

Who can ever reach those tyrants? who can wound at lances' length? Who can make a single Austrian feel a touch of mountain strength? Staffacher and Furst and Reding,† follow unavenged to death; Two yards off their slayers stand, and hardly draw a quicker breath.

"Oh! how long is this to last? When shall we get inside their spears? "Are we spell-bound? Have we borrowed foemen's curse, or foemen's fears ?""

"Charge once more, ye men of Uri-charge ye for your children's sake

“Charge again—again—again—and force their frozen lump to

break."

They were swerving and recoiling, those poor stubborn-hearted folk, And the knight of Unterwalden, Arnold Winkelried, outspoke

"Dear confederates! all dear brethren! help my infants and my wife

"I will make your path to freedom by the losing of my life!"

Oh! that soul of love and valour-oh! that look of holy mirthHow like one that mounteth heavenward doth he tread the trembling earth!

* i. e. Chief magistrate.

+ These four are the names of original Swiss patriots. The Austrian names are found in Coxe.