event occurred before the issue of the second number-the death of Seymour -and it was necessary to send the Pickwick Papers to press with only three plates. A new artist had now to be found, while the publishers were obliged to rearrange the whole work. R. W. Buss was selected to succeed Seymour, the letterpress was increased to thirty-two pages, and the plates reduced to two in each monthly part.

Buss failed completely as an etcher; indeed, so incompetent did he prove that the two plates produced by him had to be cancelled when only a few copies of the work had been circulated. Ultimately Hablôt K. Browne stepped into the breach, and the genius of "Phiz" set the seal of success upon the Pickwick Papers. It is not too much to say that this gifted artist is in a large measure responsible for the popularity which the work has since attained.

With the death of Seymour the sporting element in Pickwick, which had yielded some of its most amusing situations, was dropped. The publication from a financial point of view had not been a success, the sales only averaging fifty copies of each number. In the fourth number appeared the famous illustration of Sam. Weller, in which that worthy is depicted by "Phiz" in the act of cleaning boots. Mr. Weller Junior immediately caught the public eye: the Pickwickians began to be talked about, and the sales of the monthly parts went up by leaps and bounds. "Phiz" had caught the spirit of Dickens: Pickwick was a huge success, the circulation at the completion of the work being from forty to fifty thousand copies. Needless to say, Messrs. Chapman and Hall were highly delighted with the sudden turn in the fortunes of their publication-so much so, in fact, that they sent Dickens a cheque for £500 when the twelfth number was reached. The

author, as the work progressed, received other cheques from the publishers, amounting in all to £3,000, in addition to the fifteen guineas per number which it was agreed should be paid to him. It is said that the sale of the Pickwick Papers returned a clear profit of £20,000 after the author's fees had been paid.

The association of "Phiz" with "Boz" proved to be the beginning of a highly successful collaboration, for having both attained fame through the production of Pickwick, they continued to work together, with such results as the world in general and book lovers in particular have learned to appreciate. The humor and art of Hablôt K. Browne will always be identified with the first editions of Dickens's novels.

It is interesting to note, by the way, that Browne's appointment as illustrator to the Pickwick Papers prevented Thackeray, who had also made an application for the post, from completely abandoning his literary talents for those of the pencil, for it is possible that had Thackeray been appointed to the position, Vanity Fair, Esmond, and The Newcomes would never have been written. The Fates, however, ruled otherwise, and ten years later Thackeray was challenging Dickens for popularity, the Edinburgh Review having lauded Vanity Fair to such heights that its author was brought immediately to the front rank of fiction writers. Henceforward the art of Thackeray was destined to rival that of Dickens. But Thackeray never forgot the great genius of the author of Pickwick, and, as his correspondence shows, he was never tired of dilating on the charm of ~ Dickens to others.

That so youthful an author as Dickens should be subjected to adverse criticism on the part of the reviews, while his popularity was reflected in fashionable plagiarism by inferior writers, was only to be expected. On both

sides of the Atlantic critics fumed and sneered at the new work. At the same time there came into being a large number of productions dealing with the further adventures of Mr. Pickwick. Reputable authors caught the fever and wrote stories round Dickens' hero

an audacity which was naturally resented by the novelist.

The popularity of Pickwick is not confined to the Anglo-Saxon race; it has been translated into every Continental tongue. Three years after the issue of the first edition, it was printed in Van Diemen's Land and sold with lithographed copies of the original illustrations at a small price. In England Pickwick has been issued in paper covers at a penny. What a first edition, complete in twenty parts, would now fetch it is impossible to say. The

The Outlook.

plates-including the two which were executed by Buss ("The Cricket Match" and "The Fat Boy Awakes") and which were afterwards suppressed -are in themselves of considerable value.

As for the original Mr. Pickwick, he is supposed to have been a coach-master at Bath. It is recorded that Dickens saw the name of Moses Pickwick, Bath, Coachmaster, painted on the door of a stage coach and that he immediately appropriated it for that of his hero, substituting Samuel for Moses. Old Mr. Weller and his son certainly existed in the flesh, an interesting worthy of the name of Thomas Weller having once kept The Granby Head in Chatham. In the novel The Granby Head became The Marquis of Granby.

I.

The night before I started on my annual tour of inspection up the Blue Nile I dined with Fortman, the Civil Secretary, kindest and best of men. After dinner he said—

"By the way, will you be stopping at Goz Daoud?"

"Yes," I said, "I think so. The boat takes in wood there, and I believe we stop for a night."

"I wish you would look up Aveling," said Fortman. "You know him, don't

you?"

"Oh yes," I said, "I know him. Melancholy beggar, isn't he?"

"Well, he always used to be," said Fortman; "but Billy Graham, who saw him not long ago, says that he's now quite a cheerful bird. He's a jolly good man at his job, anyway. We got a note from him on the taxation of rain-lands two or three months ago which was really excellent: the Sir

dar thought it was quite a good scheme, and I believe it's going to be adopted. So I wrote to Aveling and congratulated him, and said I was glad he was taking such an interest in his job, and hoped he was getting to like the life here, and all that sort of thing. Because, you know, he always used to be so fearfully depressed: he did his work all right, but he never seemed to get any fun out of it, or out of anything else: and in this country a man doesn't do much good unless he's a bit enthusiastic. Well, the reason I want you to look him up is this. He wrote me a very nice letter, but a most awfully queer one. He said that he knew he had always been a bit of a wet blanket, but that the most amazing thing had happened to him which had made him the happiest man alive. He said he couldn't tell me the story then, but he hoped some day he might be able to explain it. I suppose it's

all right, but it's a bit odd, isn't it? He used to be profoundly depressed, and now he's extremely cheerful: and the change, whatever caused it, has made him one of the keenest and best men we've got. But I must say that I should like to know a little more about it."

"Why bother?" I said. "It's all to the good, isn't it?"

"Oh, it's not idle curiosity," said Fortman. "But I rather distrust these sudden changes, especially in this country. The climate and the life have such a queer effect on some people; and one has to keep an eye on fellows who are all by themselves, like Aveling. Of course, I don't want you to report, or anything of that kind: but you might just look him up, and tell me if you think he would be the better for a spell of civilization. He's doing so well where he is that we don't want to move him. All the same, if you think he wants a change, we could easily manage it."

ant, seemed to feel the heat. He v late with my afternoon tea, and he appeared to have something on his mind: for he stood about, when he had put down the tea-things, looking distinctly uneasy. At last he said

"After an hour and a half we get to Goz Daoud."

"Yes," I said sleepily.

"Does your Excellency land there for dinner with the Inspector," he asked. "or will the Inspector dine with us on board?"

"I expect I shall dine with him," I said, "and very likely I shall sleep there to-night. The boat won't go on till to-morrow morning."

Abdou seemed more embarrassed than ever. "Better your Excellency stop on board," he said; and when I asked him why, he replied, "Who knows if the tale is true? Yet a tale is told which I do not understand. It is said that his Honor the Inspector, Aveling Bey, has always with him a Djinn, who tells him of things unknown to mortals."

"Nonsense," I said; and Abdou said"As your Excellency pleases. This is the story. Who knows if it is true?" and he waddled off.

After he had gone, I remembered my conversation with Fortman, and Aveling's letter about the "amazing thing" which had happened to him. Had this anything to do with Abdou's yarn? Of course, one thinks nothing of stories of Djinns or "Afreets" in the Sudan: according to the natives, they are everywhere. One, I remember, used to haunt the road leading down to the river past the Adjutant-General's house in Khartoum. The boldest donkey-boy would never think of going that way after dark. But I had never heard before of an Afreet or Djinn befriending an Englishman. I puzzled over it for a bit, and then gave it up. It was too hot to worry over anything.

e sun was setting as we came into the Goz Daoud reach. The Blue Nile widens out there for two or three miles, and the scene was one of those which so print themselves on the brain that it is impossible ever to forget them. The westward sky was full of that lavish and fantastic splendor which seems peculiar to the Sudan: the wide river was as red as blood with the reflection. A great herd of breeding camels had come down to drink, and showed dimly on the western bank: behind them a row of palm-trees stood out black against the blaze of the sunset: and above the palms hundreds of cranes flew in long lines across and across, like some strange pattern worked in black on a background which changed each moment through every shade of orange, scarlet, and purple. Slim Arab girls, in their dull blue robes, stood along the bank, balancing their water-jars on their heads, and greeting the steamer with their high, quavering cry. We see such gorgeous pictures sometimes in the Sudan, and forget for a moment the green hills and the soft gray light of England, which at other times are never very far from our minds.

As the steamer drew up to the Goz Daoud landing-place, I saw Aveling waiting for us; and he came on board the moment we tied up. Never in all my life have I seen a man so completely changed as he was in the six months since I had last met him. The hard lines had all gone out of his face, and he looked at least ten years younger; but the startling thing was that his settled melancholy seemed not only to have disappeared, but to have been replaced by a happiness too complete and absolute to be described as placid. He simply radiated happiness. The Sudanese soldiers on the lower deck became one vast grin the moment they saw him. His manner, too, was completely changed. Formerly he had

seemed to make an effort to take his part in conversation, or even in the most ordinary interchange of civilities; but now he was the perfect host, genuinely glad to see his guest, and conveying his pleasure naturally in every tone of his voice.

As we turned to walk up to his house, I noticed at once that all was well with Goz Daoud from an administrative point of view. They say that the experienced general can form a very good opinion of the military value of troops merely by seeing them march past on the parade-ground. We who are engaged in the business of government soon get to know at a glance whether the machine is working smoothly or not in any station we visit. When Aveling gave the usual evening greeting, "May your night be happy, oh Sheikh," the answer, "And may yours be happy and blessed, oh Master," came with a readiness and enthusiasm which left no doubt of his popularity. The Sudanese Arab is always polite, but he is not always very hearty in his greetings. The sheikhs and notables of Goz Daoud evidently thought Aveling a gentleman and a good fellow, and were glad to let you know it.

Something had happened to Aveling, and it had improved him out of all knowledge. So much, at least, was evident. But I could form no sort of conjecture as to what it was. However, after all, it was no affair of mine: I had no right to cross-examine him about rumors, and no sort of wish to do anything of the kind. All seemed to be well, and I dismissed from my mind Fortman's anxiety and Abdou's foolish tale of the Djinn.

He gave me a surprisingly good dinner, and the more we talked the more I liked him. Towards the end of dinner, something he said reminded me of the latest Cairo story which had drifted down to Khartoum. It was a typical Cairo story, rather amusing,

"What do you mean?" I said, "there is nobody here but ourselves."

"Yes, there is," he said. "My little Doll is here, though you don't see her. She came down with me to the boat to meet you; but I could see she wasn't visible to you."

Frankly, I thought the man had gone clean off his head; and I suppose he read my thoughts, for he said, "Really, you know, I'm not in the least mad. Doll's here all right, though you can't see her. I sometimes wonder whether any of the natives can: I've a sort of idea they think there's something unusual, but they don't say anything. I see I must tell you the whole story. I meant to, really, all the time: in fact, I made up my mind that I would, as soon as I heard you were coming, for a reason you will soon understand. But it's a long yarn; let's get into more comfortable chairs while I tell it. The drinks are by you."

III.

"Did you ever hear of some people called Marinier-Colonel Marinier, of the Indian Army, and his wife?" asked Aveling.

"I remember the name," I said. "Wasn't there some tragedy?"

"I'm coming to that," said Aveling, "but, in order to explain a rather unusual story, I must begin with myself. My father and mother both died when I was quite a little kid: I don't even

I

remember either of them. I was brought up by a guardian, who was kind enough, but really, you know, didn't care much about me. Nobody did, much, that I can remember: rather liked one of the grooms myself. but he thought I was a little nuisance. Then at school I got on all right with everybody, but I never had any particular pal. There were several fellows who were pretty friendly-asked me to stop with them in the holidays, if two or three fellows they liked better couldn't come, and all that sort of thing-but no one who was really an intimate pal. I should have liked one, but somehow they didn't seem to come my way.

"It was pretty much the same at Sandhurst; and then, just after I was gazetted, I got a letter from Colonel Marinier, saying he was an old friend of my father, and had just left the Indian Army and settled down in Hampshire, and asking me to go down and stop with him whenever I could get away. I went down, and somehow from the very first I found myself liking them much more than any one else I ever met. Marinier himself was a very good sort, and his wife was simply and entirely delightful. She was the best-looking woman I ever saw, I think, and, quite apart from that, she was the sort of person every one liked, because no one could possibly help it. They had one little daughter, and she was Doll, who is here now, though you can't see her. She was about nine then, and we took to each other from the start,-didn't we, old lady? I remember she announced the first evening I was there, first, that she liked me, and secondly, that she was going to call me Dick, which isn't my name; and Dick I was to all of them from that time on. I was there a week that first time, and before I went I was much fonder of that kid than of all the rest of the world put