pression. Then he draws himself up, and puts on a solemn grimace, looking like a great wise owl. At times, when playing a quizzing character, there is an archness in his look, a playful drollery about the mouth, and a twinkle in his eye that are irresistible. And then how well his voice corresponds. He can speak in a low bass, or in a piping treble, taking almost at will the voice of childhood or of age, of man or woman. How well did he personate poor Toots, in Dombey, and Mrs. Gamp, the whining old nurse, in Martin Chuzzlewit!

But perhaps his happiest reading, as well as his most beautiful writing, is that which delineates children. Little Paul Dombey was the counterpart, though in another sphere, of Tiny Tim. The picture was drawn with the same delicate and inimitable grace. Who can ever forget the little fellow on the sea-beach, gathering shells, and asking his sister that question, which tells so much of premature development, and decay and early death, "Am I an old-fashioned child ?”

Sometimes Dickens rises still higher, as in the scene of the death of Paul's mother, when poor little Florence, who has never known what it was to be loved but by her, comes into the room and throws herself upon her dying mother's breast. Dickens' voice had a tone of solemnity that still rings in my ears, as he said: "Thus clinging fast to that slight spar within her arms, she floated out upon the dark and unknown sea that rolls round all the world."

DICKENS READING HIS CHRISTMAS CAROL.

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This is not the place to enter into a critical estimate of Dickens as a writer. Faults enough there may be for those who wish, to pick at. His style may be disfigured by frequent instances of broad caricature and gross exaggeration. But at present I am too much under the spell of what I have just heard, to be in a mood to criticise. Whatever faults may be found elsewhere, in those portions selected for these public readings, all must concede not only the overflowing genius, but the healthful moral influence. Well might Thackeray ask: "Was there ever a better Charity Sermon preached in the world than Dickens' Christmas Carol ?" I can well believe him, when he says: "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-and awful slaughter of Christmas turkeys, and roasting and baking of Christmas beef." "As for this man's love of children," he adds, "that amiable organ at the back of his honest head must be perfectly monstrous. All children ought to love him."

It is no small proof of goodness thus to be loved by children, who are the truest, the most unconscious and most unaffected of friends; nor is it less to be able to draw from the fancy or the heart, and to depict airy children of the brain, so that they shall become to us real beings, and shall live in our faith and our affection.

Whatever else of Dickens may perish, let his children live. They at least are innocent objects to love. Whatever be said of his portraitures of men and women, still let us keep the memory of these household saints as of our own children that we have loved and lost. Always must I bless the hand that drew the pale face of little Nell, that put such love in her faithful heart, and gave strength to her wandering feet, and still as I hear the Christmas Carol, will I say-SPIRIT OF TINY TIM, THY CHILDISH ESSENCE WAS FROM GOD!

CHAPTER III.

A NEAR VIEW OF MR. SPURGEON.

LONDON, June 23, 1858.

No preacher in England, since Edward Irving, has had such popularity as Mr. Spurgeon. He is one of the lions of London-a rather young lion, to be sure; but one who, since his appearance in the field, has roared so loudly as to make all the nation hear-and every stranger who wishes to "do" the sights of this Babylon, must for once, at least, see and hear him. Accordingly we set apart our first Sabbath to this purpose. We took a carriage early, as Surrey Hall is on the other side of the Thames, full three miles from the West End, where we had our quarters. We arrived before the gates were opened, but found the crowd already beginning to collect. I had a letter to Mr. Spurgeon which I gave to one of the officers of the church, who immediately admitted us and invited us to sit on the platform, but we preferred a seat in the front of the side gallery, from which we could overlook the audience, which was almost as much a matter of curiosity as the preacher. Soon we knew that the gates were opened by the hurrying of those who had tickets to secure good places.

It was interesting to observe the audience assembling -to mark the hurried step and eager look of the multitude. Music Hall, as it is named, is situated in the centre of Surrey Gardens, a place of resort and amusement during the week. The hall was designed, as its name indicates, for monster concerts, such as those given by Julien. It is built with three or four galleries, like the Academy of Music in New York, though from its greater length, it can hold a much larger audience. It is said that it will contain eight thousand people. But, vast as was this amphitheatre, it was soon filled. Tier above tier rose the dense array of heads. The admission is by tickets, though the price is so small that it is but a trifle to those who wish to attend. Thus, a shilling buys a ticket which is good for a month; and five shillings for the same time secures reserved seats. At half-past ten the doors were opened to those without tickets. Then came a second rush, which choked up every aisle and passage with persons standing. But at length the trampling ceased, for the building could hold no more, the audience hushed to quietness, and the preacher ascended the pulpit.

Never had a public speaker a more unpromising exterior than Mr. Spurgeon. He is very short and very fat, and altogether what we should call chubby, and as he goes waddling up the stairs he looks more like an overgrown boy than a fully developed man. Nor does his countenance betoken superior intellect. His forehead is