Crabbed Age and Youth
    Cannot live together,

we must yet sternly protest that the reason assigned—­namely, that “youth is hot and age is cold”—­is contradicted by the facts of science.

LITERATURE OF THE DAY.

The Life of Charles Dickens.  By John Forster.  Vol.  II.  Philadelphia:  J.B.  Lippincott & Co.

Beginning with Dickens’s return from America in 1842, this volume covers a period of less than ten years, the most productive, and apparently the happiest, of his life.  It brings out in even stronger relief than the preceding volume his strong individuality, a trait which, whether it attracts or repels—­and on most persons we think it produces alternately each of these effects—­is full of interest, worthy of study and fruitful of suggestions.  Its superabundant energy seemed to create demands in order that it might expend itself in satisfying them.  Its persistence was toughened by failure as much as by success.  Its vivacity, verging upon boisterousness, was incapable of being chilled.  Its strenuousness knew no lassitude, and needed no repose.  In play as in work, in physical exercise as in mental labor, in all his projects, purposes and performances, Dickens seems to have been in a perpetual state of tension that allowed of no reaction.  His was a mind not morbidly self-conscious, but ever aglow with the consciousness of power and the ardor of its achievement, in-sensible of waste and undisturbed by critical introspection.

The excitement into which he was thrown by the composition of his books exceeds anything of the kind recorded in literary history, and stands in strong contrast with the self-contained tranquillity with which Scott performed an equal or greater amount of labor.  Yet it does not, like similar ebullitions in other men, suggest any notion of weakness or of a talent strained beyond its capacity.  It was coupled with an enormous facility of execution and the ability to pass with undiminished freshness from one field of action to another.  It sprang from the intensity with which every idea was conceived, and which belonged equally to his smallest with his greatest undertakings.  “The book,” he writes of the Chimes, “has made my face white in a foreign land.  My cheeks, which were beginning to fill out, have sunk again; my eyes have grown immensely large; my hair is very lank, and the head inside the hair is hot and giddy.  Read the scene at the end of the third part twice.  I wouldn’t write it twice for something....  Since I conceived, at the beginning of the second part, what must happen in the third, I have undergone as much sorrow and agitation as if the thing were real, and have wakened up with it at night.  I was obliged to lock myself in when I finished it yesterday, for my face was swollen for the time to twice its proper size, and was hugely ridiculous.”  The little book was written at Genoa; and having finished it, he must make a winter