amatic or picturesque, under which lay the germ of what his
mature genius took afterwards most delight in. Of course there are
inequalities in it, and some things that would have been better away;
but it is a book that might have stood its ground, even if it had stood
alone, as containing unusually truthful observation of a sort of life
between the middle class and the low, which, having few attractions for
bookish observers, was quite unhackneyed ground. It had otherwise also
the very special merit of being in no respect bookish or commonplace in
its descriptions of the old city with which its writer was so familiar.
It was a picture of every-day London at its best and worst, in its
humors and enjoyments as well as its sufferings and sins, pervaded
everywhere not only with the absolute reality of the things depicted,
but also with that subtle sense and mastery of feeling which gives to
the reader's sympathies invariably right direction, and awakens
consideration, tenderness, and kindness precisely for those who most
need such help.

Between the first and the second numbers of _Pickwick_, the artist, Mr.
Seymour, died by his own hand; and the number came out with three
instead of four illustrations. Dickens had seen the unhappy man only
once, forty-eight hours before his death; when he went to Furnival's Inn
with an etching for the "stroller's tale" in that number, which, altered
at Dickens's suggestion, he brought away again for the few further
touches that occupied him to a late hour of the night before he
destroyed himself. A notice attached to the number informed the public
of this latter fact. There was at first a little difficulty in replacing
him, and for a single number Mr. Buss was interposed. But before the
fourth number a choice had been made, which as time went on was so
thoroughly justified, that through the greater part of the wonderful
career which was then beginning the connection was kept up, and Mr.
Hablot Browne's name is not unworthily associated with the masterpieces
of Dickens's genius. An incident which I heard related by Mr. Thackeray
at one of the Royal Academy dinners belongs to this time: "I can
remember when Mr. Dickens was a very young man, and had commenced
delighting the world with some charming humorous works in covers which
were colored light green and came out once a month, that this young man
wanted an artist to illustrate his writings; and I recollect walking up
to his chambers in Fur