The Sun.
London, England, 1847-06-17 00:00:00

form, a simple accidental circumstance connected with
the mode of publication. Forms in such matters affect
the substance; and he who creates a now form of litera-
ture, is the founder of a school. Minds of all varying
casts may adopt it; but, under the individual differences,
there will be traced the family likeness, sufficient to en-
title the founder to claim the honours of paternity.
Such honours a future generation will not be slow to
award to Mr. Dickens. Though seeing, as we begin to
see, that when he struck into this new path, the public
was already crowding towards the gateway; though
feeling, as we begin to feel, that its direction was truly
downwards, despite the many beauties of this lowe'r
region; though free, as the present generation can
never be, from the prestige of his earlier successesi—
this), will yet acknowledge, that it could be no common
man to whose lot it fell to guide a movement so prolific
of results; for they whom nations choose to follow, bear
upon them the stamp of mental royalty. Here, there can
be no usurpation; to be obeyed is the guarantee for a
legitimate title.
Unlike other crowns, however, Mr. Dickens' diadem
has allowed his head to lie too easily in the lap of for-
tune. Piquancy and quaintness have too much subsided
into fixed mannerisms; " the charm dissolves apace"
from " Pickwick" we have descended to " Martin
Chuzzlewit;" the series which began with the "Christ-
mas Carol" is closed, for the present, by the " Battle of

Life."
The " Battle of Life!" It was a noble title, sugges-
tive of high thoughts. We looked for a picture of some
lofty nature sorely tried—placed struggling between
temptation and duty, between passion and principle, be-
tween the promptings of selfishness and the whispers of
self-sacrificing love; and we longed to see a battle such
as this fought out in the glowing page, as many such
are fought and won, unrecorded, in daily life. Instead
of this, what have we? Our pen refuses the task of
analysis. We have first a description of a real field of
battle—very prettily drawn, indeed; then enter a father
and two daughters—then the affianced lover of the
younger—a parting—mysterious inuendos—at last, on
the day of his return, she elopes with a stranger—
misery, mystery—her betrothed marries her sister—
ibaally, she re-appears, not lost nor dishonoured; and,
lo! it was no elopement at all; but thinking, in her
wisdom, that her sister loved him, she had vanished to
break his tie to her, that that sister might fill her
place! And this is the " Battle of Life!" This is
" A Love Story!" F, ere ever noble titles worse pro-
faned? Did ever book issue from an eminent writer's
pen, more fatal to his claims to the character of a master
in his art.

,For, be it observed, in reviewing such a plot, im-
probability is our lightest charge. That such " battles"
are not fought in the " Life" of man, we are thankful.
That " Love' is not apt to choose such modes of show-
ing itself, we are thankful. But there is a kind of im-
probability which does no discredit to the poet or the
novelist. Shakspere's Miranda is as unearthly a form
as even his Caliban or his Ariel. No island ever saw so
bright a gem. But she, or any other imaginative creation,
is unlike real life, simply because more true that nature
to nature's principles. The harmony of the character is
true; every element in keeping: only analysed by severer
tests than real life affords. As, then, chemical analysis
introduces no new principle, but only discovers more
plainly those which lay concealed; so the poet, placing a
human heart in a new light, unveils some beauty—makes
his fictitious character more beautiful, perhaps, than
any real personage—but leaves it to the last in per-
fect unison with the feelings of our every-day nature.
Has Mr. Dickens so dealt with his Marion ? Indignant
Nature answers, no ! Her love is not the love of woman;
her battle not the battle appointed for human life. Were
it possible for any one so to act, to wring the affections
of father, sister, lover, for a mere fancy of her own—we
should judge that some fearful malady had befallen her;
—the loss, not of reason, but of something higher, the
magnet of a woman's heart, true to the pole of love. If
the author really meant to portray a type of high-toned
self-devotion, most wofully has he missed his mark. His
Marion comes forth from his easel, not like one of Scott'er
heroines, the beautiful likeness of—
" A creature not too bright and good
For human nature's daily food ;
Nor Yet, like a Miranda, superhuman in the angel-like
brightness of her woman's form, but rather like a soft
and delicate female Frankenstein, whom, labour as we
will, we cannot admit either to admiration or to sym-
th
pay.
We were about to ask, whence came this feebleness of
touch, and had dipped our pen in critical gall for the
reply. But, a fair vision crossed our path, and the soft
voice of little Paul pleaded for a milder sentence. We
cannot resist the appeal. We might, indeed, were we so
minded, find some flaws in the beautiful sentimentalism
of Paul's death-bed scene ; some affectations of style,
some little mawkishness of feeling, more than a little
want of a healthy spirit in contemplating death. We
might object to the whole description, its too close re-
semblance, in touch and colouring, and light and tone,
to the well-remembered chapters, which told the death
of Little Nell. We might say, it is not the sign of
strength to reproduce old creations. But we forbear.
After all our criticism, the spell of beauty and pathos
would remain, and we, ourselves, the surly critics, must
how, with others, to its power.
Mr. Dickens stems, however, like another Antaeus, to
renew his strength on touching familiar ground. No-
where has he painted with a more vivid pencil, than in
drawing. the picture, in the 6th number of the poor for-
saken Florence. If some might say, that Paul was like
a dream of fairy-land, Florence, at least, is a true child
of earth. We know the look of her dreary chamber, we
share her solitary watch, mark her patient endurance of
her aunt's pedantry of comtbrt, her timid visit down
stairs, her harsh repulse—all is as lifelike as if we had
seen and talked with her in her grief. Diogenes himself
seems no stranger to us. And most of all, we are at-
tracted by the brave spirit which would not be crushed
—which would not like to feel as if the house was
avoided, though " the recognition of some spot or object
very tenderly asscociated with him, made the miserable
house, at first, a place of agony ;" the spirit which drove
her to watch the children opposite, though every mark
of their father's affection sent a pang to her breast : this,
indeed, shows a master's touch, and for the sake of this
exquisite portrait, we can forgive " Dombey and Son"
the tameness of its earlier numbers. It has revived our
flagging interest in the story ; and we now wait, with
no small anxiety, to see how the author will deal with
this child of his fancy. On such a point it is unfair to
speculate ; should the completed picture realise the pro-
mise of the first outline, it will be, in many respects, Mr.
Dicken's proudest achievement ; deeper in philosophy,
and richer in poetry, than any of his previous perform-
ances. If it be said, that here and there the author
seems to forget, that he is painting a child and not
a woman, he is still true to nature, and to something
above nature, which tells us, that there is no school
in which the moral and intellectual faculties are so
quickly matured as the school of deep aftliction.—North
British Review.

THE LATE DR. CHALMERS.
AN EFFECTUAL REPROOF.
During the time that Dr. Chalmers was minister of
the Tron Church, Glasgow, he never forgot giving occa-
sional visits to his native town, Anstruther, and also
visiting his old parishioners in the parish of Kilmany,
who were much endeared to him, having first broken the
bread of life amongst them. On one of these occasions,
whilst journeying homewards to Glasgow upon a Satur-
day, and arriving at a certain town where there was a
collegiate charge, the youngest clergyman of which,
having waited upon him, and begged most earnestly that
he would remain over Sabbath and preach for him, he,
after considerable denial, at length consented to do so.
The 'amour that the Doctor was to preach the next day
quickly spread like wild-fire through the town and
parish, so that the church and its passages were crowded
to suffocation, besides some hundreds in the churchyard
who could not obtain an entrance. The Doctor's power-
ful and impressive discourse was the chief topic of t 1
parishioners for many a day afterwards. The other
minister in the charge (who was not over-popular with
the people) did not like to hear so much said to the
praise of the Doctor. "For my own part," said he, "I
think he is really mad." A faithful friend soon after
wrote to the Doctor, and, among other things, acquainted
him with what his elder brother had said. Some months
after this the Doctor had been again on a visit to his
friends, and on his way arriving at the town above
alluded to, called upon his reverend friend for whom he
preached before with such satisfaction, and by whom he
was again urged upon to preach that evening, which the
Doctor at once consented to do. Although it was a
weekday the attendants was immense, and instead of
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within. Among the hearers was his reverend friend's
colleague, who spoke so rashly of Dr. Chalmers on the
occasion before alluded to. Truly it was a most solemn
sight to see such a mass of human beings, and especially
to hear them engage in the praise of their Redeemer.
After prayer the Doctor chose for his text the words,
" I am not mad, most noble Festus, but speak forth the
words of truth and soberness." After a most eloquent
and heart-stirring discourse, which affected not a few,
not even excepting the minister who used such sarcastic
expressions on the former occasion ; and, ab the Doctor
was going out at the gate of the churchyard, the same
minister came to him, being self- convicted, trembling,
and in tears, like the Tailor of Philippi before now, and
begged ten thousand, pardons for what he formerly co
rtn:.:freeieuely remarked regarding him, when the Doctor,
with his usual benignity, cordially shook his aged and
penitent brother by the hand, and said he freely forgave
him. To his merit the minister was, ever after, while
he lived, one of the Doctor's greatest admirers, and also
one of his best friends.

THE CRopS.—The following is an extract of a letter
from the south-west :—" June to, 1847.—The potatoes
grown in the open air in the garden of Sir David hisx
in -
well, of Cardoness, Baronet, which I was to-day, and
ready for the table; they have broad leaves, and indeed
the healthiest appearance the gardener has seen for years.
Cardoness is ten miles from Kirkcudbright, and potatoes
in general seasons are ready there (Cardoness) for the
table by the Ist June ; but this is the Devonshire of
Scotland." The accounts of the crops that we have seen
express the best opinion of harvest prospects in wort
articles, especially those of heaviest importance, and it
seems that of wheat a much larger than average breadth
has been planted.—North Briti.ch