titled 'The Seven Poor Travellers,' was sent to press. Happening to be going to dine that day with an old and dear friend, distinguished in literature as Barry Cornwall, I took with me an early proof of that number, and remarked, as I laid it on the drawingroom table, that it contained a very pretty poem, written by a certain Miss Berwick. Next day brought me the disclosure that I had so spoken of the poem to the mother of its writer, in its writer's presence; that I had no such correspondent in existence as Miss Berwick; that the name had been assumed by Barry Cornwall's eldest daughter, Miss Adelaide Anne Procter."

And, after describing her cheerfulness, her modesty, her conviction that life "must not be dreamed away," her unceasing efforts to do good, he thus describes the final ending. She had then lain an invalid upon her bed through fifteen months:-"In all that time, her old cheerfulness never quitted her. In all that time, not an impatient or querulous minute can be remembered. At length, at midnight on the 2nd of February, 1864, she turned down a leaf of a little book she was reading, and shut it up. The ministering hand that had copied the verses into the tiny album was soon around her neck, and she quietly asked, as the clock was on the stroke of One: 'Do you think I am dying, mamma?'-'I think you are very, very ill to-night, my dear.'-'Send for my sister. My feet are so cold. Lift me up!' Her

sister entering as they raised her, she said: 'It has come at last!' And with a bright and happy smile, looked upward, and departed."

We are now approaching the last of those Christmas numbers which for so many years have formed a friendly tie between author and reader at the festive season. "Doctor Marigold's Prescriptions" was the number for Christmas, 1865. It gave the history of an itinerant "Cheap Jack," named "Doctor," in remembrance of a kind-hearted medical man who officiated at his birth, and who would only accept a tea-tray in payment for his services. The "Doctor's" peculiar talents in his line of business, and the happy contrast to the political Cheap Jack, making rash promises never intended to be kept; the giant Pickleson, otherwise Rinaldo di Velasco, with his small head, weak eyes, and weak knees; his master, Mr. Mim, the proprietor of the caravan; the death of little Sophy in her father's arms, while he convulses his rustic audience with his witticisms and funny speeches; the suicide of his wife; the peculiarities of his old horse; and the intelligent dog, who "taught himself out of his own head to growl at any person in the crowd that bid as low as sixpence;" the purchase of the poor little deaf and dumb girl for a pair of braces; his kindness to her, then sending her to an institution to be educated; her subsequent marriage with one similarly afflicted as herself; their coming home, after a long absence, with their little girl; and Marigold's intense excite

ment in finding the child can speak, is all a delightful reality, and thoroughly true to nature.

Dickens was a guest at the Mansion House, on January 16th following, on the occasion of a magnificent banquet. He proposed the "Health of the Lady Mayoress." The next month we find him taking the chair (for the second time) at the annual dinner of the Dramatic, Equestrian, and Musical Fund, at Willis's Rooms.*

The following month Dickens took a prominent part in another public meeting-the annual festival of the Royal General Theatrical Fund. It came off on March 28th, and Sir Benjamin Phillips, the Lord Mayor, in replying to his "health"-which our author had proposed-told this interesting anecdote :-" My acquaintance with Mr. Dickens dates from my boyhood. I recollect being in Hamburgh, some thirty years ago, upon a commercial errand, when my mind and time were engaged in those pursuits, and meeting with a gentleman with whom I had some very large transactions, he invited me to breakfast with him the following morning. I went to him, we passed a pleasant hour, and after he rose from his table he looked at his watch and said, 'Let us take a walk. 'Well,' I said, 'I have no objection to that,' and we walked together. He seemed very restless indeed. We went to a café and read a newspaper, and I could get him to do anything but attend to business. At last out he took his watch and said,

*February 14, 1866.

"My dear friend, you must excuse me, this is the day on which the fifth number of a work written by one of your countrymen, and called 'Boz,' comes to Hamburgh, and until I get that number and read it I can neither talk of business nor anything else.'

"I take shame to myself," continued the Lord Mayor on this occasion, "that I at that moment should have been in utter ignorance of the brilliant talent of my illustrious friend, of whom I can say, as was said by another distinguished poet, that the price of his literary labours is immortality, and that posterity will generously and proudly pay it. I never contemplated in my philosophy that I should have the honour of what Mr. Dickens has been pleased to call a personal friendship with the man who, I do not hesitate to say, any crowned head in Europe would be proud to shake by the hand and call by the name— the man who has added, in this generation, honour and dignity to his profession-who has penetrated and dug from the hearts of men their virtues and their qualities, and to whom the whole world owes a deep and a lasting debt of gratitude; and I unhesitatingly say, and say most proudly, that it is to me, representing, as I do, the largest commercial city in the world—that I consider it to be a great honour to be permitted, in the name of humanity, to offer my grateful and graceful tribute to Mr. Charles Dickens."

The members of the Metropolitan Rowing Clubs, dining together at the London Tavern, on the 7th May following, Dickens, as President of the Nautilus

T

Rowing Club (of which his eldest son was captain), occupied the chair: his speech on this occasion was full of humour.

The last number but one of the old familiar Christmas Numbers was now at hand. "Mugby Junction" was the title of that issued in December, 1866, and it contained a larger amount of writing by Dickens than usual. "Barbox Brothers and Co.," "The Boy at Mugby," and "The Signalman," were his contributions.

The description of the Mugby Junction Station at three in the morning, in tempestuous weather; the arrival of the express train, the guard "glistening with drops of wet, and looking at the tearful face of his watch by the light of his lantern;" the alighting of Barbox Brothers; the appearance of "Lamps," the velveteen individual; his daughter Phoebe, who kept a school; the episode of Polly going astray, and being found by Barbox Brothers; and the relating of Barbox Brothers' past life and adventures, are told in a manner the reader will not easily forget.

"The Boy at Mugby" was intended to show the abominable system of our railway refreshment rooms, with their stale pastry, saw-dust sandwiches, scalding tea and coffee, and unpalatable butter-scotch, in comparison with the excellent arrangements for the comfort and accommodation of railway travellers in France.

As some indication of the sale of these "Christmas