fused. The editor of the Chronicle engaged him to continue them in that paper, where they attracted much attention. In 1836 they were published collectively in two volumes, illustrated by Cruikshank.

About this time Chapman & Hall proposed to Dickens a work of fiction in monthly numbers, to be illustrated by Seymour, a comic artist. In accordance with this proposal Dickens began The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club. On the death of Seymour, before the publication of the second number, Hablot Knight Browne, under the pseudonym of "Phiz," took his place. The first numbers were not successful, but the appearance of Sam Weller gained many readers, and the author was soon the most popular writer of the day. Before the completion of Pickwick, Oliver Twist was begun in Bentley's Magazine. Pickwick appeared in book form in 1837, Oliver Twist in 1838, and Nicholas Nickleby in 1839. Under the general title of Master Humphrey's Clock, The Old Curiosity Shop and Barnaby Rudge were published in monthly numbers in 1840-41. In 1842 Dickens visited America, sailing for Boston in January, and returning to England in June. On his return he published American Notes for General Circulation (1842), and Martin Chuzzlewit (1843).

The Christmas Carol (1843) was the first of his popular holiday stories. The others are The Chimes (1844), The Cricket on the Hearth (1845), The Battle of Life (1846), The Haunted Man (1848), Dr. Marigold's Prescription (1865), Mugby Junction (1866), and No Thoroughfare (1867), the last of which was

written in conjunction with Wilkie Collins. Pictures from Italy first appeared in The Daily News, of which Dickens was editor, during four months of the year 1846. Next came Dombey and Son (1847-48) and David Copperfield (1849–50).

Dickens now established the weekly periodical, Household Words, in which his Child's History of England (1852) and Hard Times (1854) were published. Bleak House (1852-53) and Little Dorrit (1856-57) appeared serially. In consequence of a dispute with the publishers, Household Words was discontinued in 1859, and Dickens established another weekly publication, All the Year Round, in which he published A Tale of Two Cities (1860), Great Expectations (1861), and The Uncommercial Traveller. Our Mutual Friend (1864–65) was his last completed work, The Mystery of Edwin Drood, begun in April, 1870, being interrupted by his death in June of that year. During the last years of his life Dickens gave frequent readings from his own works, visiting the United States for that purpose in 1867-68, and giving his last reading in England in March, 1870.

SAM WELLER'S VALENTINE.

Sam had unconsciously been a full hour and a half writing words in small text, smearing out wrong letters with his little finger, and putting in new ones, which required going over very often to render them visible through the old blots, when he was roused by the opening of the door and the entrance of his parent. "Vell, Sammy," said the father. "Vell, my Proosian Blue,' responded the son, laying down his pen. "What's the last bulletin about mother-in-law?"

"Mrs. Veller passed a wery good night, but is uncom

mon perwerse and unpleasant this mornin'. Signed upon oath, S. Veller, Esquire, Senior. That's the last vun as was issued, Sammy," replied Mr. Weller, untying his shawl.

"No better yet?" inquired Sam.

"All the symptoms aggerwated," replied Mr. Weller, shaking his head. "But wot's that, you're a-doin' of— pursuit of knowledge under difficulties-eh, Sammy?"

"I've done now," said Sam, with slight embarrassment; "I've been a writin'."

"So I see," replied Mr. Weller. "Not to any young 'ooman, I hope, Sammy."

"Why it's no use a-sayin' it a'n't," replied Sam. "It's a walentine."

"A what!" exclaimed Mr. Weller, apparently horrorstricken by the word.

"A walentine," replied Sam.

"Samivel, Samivel," said Mr. Weller, in reproachful accents, "I didn't think you'd ha' done it. Arter the warnin' you've had o' your father's wicious propensities; arter all I've said to you upon this here wery subject; arter actiwally seein' and bein' in the company o' your own mother-in-law, vich I should ha thought wos a moral lesson as no man could never ha' forgotten to his dyin' day! I didn't think you'd ha' done it, Sammy! I didn't think you'd ha' done it!"

"Nonsense," said Sam. "I a'n't a-goin' to get married, don't fret yourself about that. Order in your pipe, and I'll read you the letter-there."

Sam dipped his pen into the ink to be ready for any corrections, and began with a very theatrical air: "Lovely'

Stop," said Mr. Weller, ringing the bell. "A double glass o' the inwariable, my dear."

66

Very well, sir," replied the girl; who with great quickness appeared, vanished, returned, and disappeared.

"They seem to know your ways here," observed Sam. "Yes," replied his father, "I've been here before, in my time. Go on, Sammy."

"Lovely creetur,'" repeated Sam.

""Ta'n't in poetry, is it?" interposed his father.

"No, no," replied Sam.

"Wery glad to hear it," said Mr. Weller. "Poetry's unnat'ral; no man ever talked poetry 'cept a beadle on boxin' day, or Warren's blackin' or Rowland's oil, or some o' them low fellows; never let yourself down to talk poetry, my boy. Begin ag'in, Sammy. "

Mr. Weller resumed his pipe with critical solemnity, and Sam once more commenced, and read as follows: "Lovely creetur i feel myself a dammed' ”

"That a'n't proper," said Mr. Weller, taking his pipe from his mouth.

"No; it a'n't 'dammed,'" observed Sam, holding the letter up to the light, "it's 'shamed,' there's a blot there I feel myself ashamed.'

"Wery good," said Mr. Weller. "Go on."

"Feel myself ashamed, and completely cir' I forget what this here word is,” said Sam, scratching his head with the pen, in vain attempts to remember.

"Why don't you look at it, then?" inquired Mr. Weller.

"So I am a-lookin' at it," replied Sam, "but there's another blot. Here's a c and a i and a d."

""Circumwented,' p'r'aps," suggested Mr. Weller. "No it a'n't that," said Sam; "circumscribed'; that's it."

"That a'n't as good a word as circumwented, Sammy," said Mr. Weller, gravely.

"Think not?" said Sam.

"Nothin' like it," replied his father.

"But don't you think it means more?" inquired Sam.

"Vell p'raps it is a more tender word," said Mr. Weller, after a few moments' reflection. "Go on, Sammy."

"Feel myself ashamed and completely circumscribed in a dressin' of you, for you are a nice gal and nothin' but it.'"

"That's a wery pretty sentiment," said the elder Mr. Weller, removing his pipe to make way for the remark.

"Yes, I think it is rayther good," observed Sam, highly flattered.

"Wot I like in that 'ere style of writin'," said the elder Mr. Weller, "is, that there a'n't no callin' names in it-no Wenuses, nor nothin' o' that kind. Wot's the good o' callin' a young 'ooman a Wenus or a angel, Sammy?"

"Ah! what indeed?" replied Sam.

"You might jist as well call her a griffin, or a unicorn, or a King's Arms at once, which is wery well known to be a collection of fabulous animals," added Mr. Weller.

"Just as well," replied Sam.

"Drive on, Sammy," said Mr. Weller.

Sam complied with the request, and proceeded as follows: "Afore I see you I thought all women was alike.'

"So they are," observed the elder Mr. Weller, parenthetically.

"But now,' continued Sam, "now I find what a reg'lar soft-headed, inkred'lous turnup I must ha' been ; for there a'n't nobody like you though I like you better than nothin' at all.' I thought it best to make that rayther strong," said Sam, looking up. Mr. Weller nodded approvingly, and Sam resumed. "So I take the privilidge of the day, Mary, my dear, to tell you that the first and only time I see you, your likeness was took on my h'art in much quicker time and brighter colors than ever a likeness was took by the profeel machine, altho' it does finish a portrait and put the frame and glass on complete with a hook at the end to hang it up by and all in two minutes and a quarter.'

"I am afeerd that werges on the poetical, Sammy," said Mr. Weller, dubiously.

"No it don't," replied Sam, reading on very quickly to avoid contesting the point-"Except of me Mary my dear as your walentine, and think over what I've said. My dear Mary I will now conclude.' That's all," said Sam.

"That's rayther a sudden pull up, a'n't it, Sammy?" inquired Mr. Weller.

"Not a bit on it," said Sam; "she'll wish there was more, and that's the great art of letter-writin'."— The Pickwick Club.