ication continued till the November of 1837. Independently
of his work on "Pickwick," he was, in the year 1836, engaged in the
arduous profession of a reporter till the close of the parliamentary
session, and also wrote a pamphlet on Sabbatarianism, a farce in two
acts, "The Strange Gentleman," for the St. James's Theatre, and a
comic opera, "The Village Coquettes," which was set to music by
Hullah. With the very commencement of 1837--"Pickwick," it will be
remembered, going on all the while--he entered upon the duties of
editor of _Bentley's Miscellany_, and in the second number began the
publication of "Oliver Twist," which was continued into the early
months of 1839, when his connection with the magazine ceased. In the
April of 1838, and simultaneously, of course, with "Oliver Twist,"
appeared the first part of "Nicholas Nickleby"--the last part
appearing in the October of the following year. Three novels of more
than full size and of first-rate importance, in less than four years,
besides a good deal of other miscellaneous work--certainly that was
"good going." The pace was decidedly fast. Small wonder that _The
Quarterly Review_, even so early as October, 1837, was tempted to
croak about "Mr. Dickens" as writing "too often and too fast, and
putting forth in their crude, unfinished, undigested state, thoughts,
feelings, observations, and plans which it required time and study to
mature," and to warn him that as he had "risen like a rocket," so he
was in danger of "coming down like the stick." Small wonder, I say,
and yet to us now, how unjust the accusation appears, and how false
the prophecy. Rapidly as those books were executed, Dickens, like the
real artist that he was, had put into them his best work. There was no
scamping. The critics of the time judged superficially, not making
allowance for the ample fund of observations he had amassed, for the
genuine fecundity of his genius, and for the admirable industry of an
extremely industrious man. "The World's Workers"--there exists under
that general designation a series of short biographies, for which Miss
Dickens has written a sketch of her father's life. To no one could the
description more fittingly apply. Throughout his life he worked
desperately hard. He possessed, in a high degree, the "infinite
faculty for taking pains," which is so great an adjunct to genius,
though it is not, as the good Sir Joshua Reynolds held, genius itself.
Thus what he had done rapidly