far as I may be permitted to do so, with proper regard to his private feelings. If he should ever write his autobiography, giving a full picture of his early history, it would probably be one of the most interesting books in any language. The last injunction I received from several of my friends when I parted with them in America, was to tell them in my letters something about "Boz."

There were many persons in our country who could not be prevailed upon to read his works for a long time after the publication of the Pickwick Papers. So many vulgar representations of Sam Weller had appeared on the theatre bills at every corner of the street, that the name of "Boz" became associated with all that was offensive in the burlesque and low farce of the American stage.

In this feeling I once participated. But a year ago a friend brought Oliver Twist to my room, to help while away a night of illness. He had not read many pages before my prejudices against the author all gave way; and, after my recovery, I was glad to read that charming book by myself, where I could enjoy the full pleasure of those feelings which the kind-hearted writer so well knows how to excite. On closing the work, I felt an interest in the "Work-house Hero" which no fictitious char

VISIT TO MR. DICKENS.

5

acter ever awakened in my heart. Immediately I collected all the writings of Dickens, and read them with a new and strange delight. There was no gloom which his wit and humour could not drive away; no hilarity which I was not glad to exchange for the scenes of suffering, sadness, and triumph, in the histories of the generous but unfortunate Oliver; the proudspirited, kind-hearted Nicholas; the confiding Madaline; the beautiful Kate; and, above all, sweet little Nelly, that child of heaven. I promised myself a higher gratification in seeing the author of these works than from intercourse with any other man.

I was expressing to Campbell, whom I met last evening at Dr. Beattie's, my admiration for Dickens. He inquired if I had ever seen him. I answered I had not, and that I should consider it a misfortune to leave England without seeing him. Immediately Campbell left the room, and, returning in a few moments, took my hand and said, "I am glad you like Mr. Dickens. Here is a letter of introduction to him. I want you to read it, and then I will seal it, for I consider it a mark of ill-breeding to present an unsealed letter; and the one to be introduced may perhaps feel some desire to glance over it: this he should be permitted to do, and then it should be seal

ed." Campbell persisted, and I read it. It was warm-hearted and generous, like everything that comes from Thomas Campbell. I gave back the letter with many thanks. "Oh! don't thank me, sir: of what use would it be to live in this world, if we could not gratify our feelings by once in a while, at least, doing some good to others ?"

This morning I called on Mr. Dickens. 1 felt the same reverence for the historian of little Nelly when I entered his library, that I should for the author of Waverley at his grave. Yea, more for there is more Christian philanthropy in his heart than ever dwelt in Sir Walter's; and would to God there were no worse men than was Sir Walter. I thought I would withhold Campbell's letter until after my reception. I felt assured that the heart of Charles Dickens had not been so chilled by the cold spirit that reigns in the higher circles of English society as to prevent him from receiving me with genuine kindness. I sent in my card, after writing on it with a pencil, "An American would be greatly obliged if he could see Mr. Dickens." In a moment or two the servant returned and showed me to the library. The author was sitting in a large arm-chair by his table, with a sheet of "Master Humphrey's Clock" before him. He came forward and

VISIT TO MR. DICKENS.

gave me his hand familiarly, and offered me a chair. I told him I was an American, and hoped he would pardon me for calling without an invitation, and, if he was not particularly engaged, I should be much gratified with a short interview. He begged me to make no apologies; he was always glad to see Americans; they had extended such a generous hand to the oppressed of England, that they ought to feel no delicacy in introducing themselves to Englishmen. I at once felt at home, and remarked that I trusted I was prompted by a better motive than mere curiosity in coming to see him. I wished to see the man who had so faithfully delineated the human heart, and shown so much sympathy for the poor and the suffering: it was the philanthropist even more than the author I was anxious to see. He replied, nothing could be more gratifying to him than to receive demonstrations of regard from American read

ers.

"American praise," said he, "is the best praise in the world, for it is sincere. Very few reviews are written in this country except under the influence of some personal feeling. Do not understand me to complain of the treatment I have received from the reviewers: they have awarded me more praise than I deserve." I expressed a desire to know something of the history of his authorship, at the same time say

ing that, of course, I did not expect him to communicate to a stranger anything he would not freely make known to the world. "Oh, sir," he replied, "ask as many questions as you please: as an American, it is one of your inalienable rights to ask questions; and this, I fancy, is the reason why the Yankees are so intelligent."

I inquired if, in portraying his characters, he had not, in every instance, his eye upon some particular person he had known, since I could not conceive it possible for an author to present such graphic and natural pictures except from real life. "Allow me to ask, sir," I said, "if the one-eyed Squeers, coarse but good John Browdie, the beautiful Sally Brass, clever Dick . Swiveller, the demoniac and intriguing Quilp, the good Cheerbly Brothers, the avaricious Fagin, and dear little Nelly, are mere fancies?"

"No, sir, they are not," he replied; "they are copies. You will not understand me to say, of course, that they are true histories in all respects, but they are real likenesses; nor have I in any of my works attempted anything more than to arrange my story as well as I could, and give a true picture of scenes I have witnessed. My past history and pursuits have led me to a familiar acquaintance with numerous instances of extreme wretchedness and of deeplaid villany. In the haunts of squalid poverty