"There is consolation in that too," cried Mr. Pecksniff. "Am I?" "There is no better man living," said Mrs. Todgers, "I am sure." Mr. Pecksniff smiled through his tears, and slightly shook his head.... "Chronic--chronic! Let's have a little drop of something to drink." "Bless my life, Miss Pecksniffs!" cried Mrs. Todgers, aloud, "your dear pa 's took very poorly!" Mr. Pecksniff straightened himself by a surprising effort, as every one turned hastily towards him; and standing on his feet, regarded the assembly with a look of ineffable wisdom. Gradually it gave place to a smile; a feeble, helpless, melancholy smile; bland almost to sickliness. "Do not repine, my friends," said Mr. Pecksniff, tenderly. "Do not weep for me. It is chronic." And with these words, after making a futile attempt to pull off his shoes, he fell into the fireplace. In conclusion, I am sorry that I have not time to discuss the actual style of our two writers. I had hoped to dwell a little on Dickens's descriptive power, in which he far excels Thackeray; on that wonderful photographic imagination of his which impresses on our minds the scenery of his novels down to the smallest details as vividly as it was impressed on his own, on his splendid handling of crowds and big stage effects. I am afraid that in the foregoing remarks I have dwelt too much on Dickens's strong points; I have said nothing of his cheap melodrama, his maudlin pathos, his frequent bad taste; but after all, these are but comparatively small blots on a great genius, and they nearly always occur where Dickens is trying to impress us in a way that does not come naturally to him. I am afraid, also, that I have emphasized mainly Thackeray's weak points and neglected his strong ones. I set off, however, avowedly as a champion of Dickens, and I should find it hard to pose as an impartial judge, for while I only admire Thackeray, I love Dickens. PESSIMISM This poem and the poem entitled "Eternal Silence" were found among Professor Bateman's papers. While there is some doubt as to their authorship, there are indications that they are probably his workmanship. WHAT IS THE END TO WHICH ALL THINGS PROGRESS? No man will ever know; Not though for countless years Not though with toil and tears Millions of human brains Ever more strong and clear, Rise on this planet here; And with more perfect skill, With cunning greater still Than any yet attains, Probe for the mystery. Why all these burning suns Ringed with their planets Driving through endless space? By what strange accident Rose there to consciousness On this poor ball of earth A being aware, Who can wonder and question? A speck in the Universe, Who looks up aghast At the glittering riddle That night ever brings him? One speck that dissents From the law of the Whole, The one interruption To the balanced perfection, The voiceless and passionless life Of the meaningless Whole?