Seymour’s services were prematurely ended by his suicide. His successor, Buss, was also of short duration and evidently not satisfactory to the author or publisher, for there follows a long list of applicants desiring to fill the vacant post, among them Wm. M. Thackeray. In responding to a toast of “Literature,” at the Royal Academy banquet years after, the latter said, “I can remember when Mr. Dickens was a very young man and had commenced delighting the world with some charming humorous works, of which I cannot mention the name but which were coloured light green and came out once a month, that this young man wanted an artist to illustrate his writings, and I recollect walking up to his chambers with two or three drawings in my hand, which, strange to say, he did not find suitable. But for that unfortunate blight which came over my artistical existence it would have been my pride and my pleasure to have endeavoured one day to find a place on these walls for one of my performances.” Later he alluded to the rejection of his services as “Mr. Pickwick’s lucky escape.” In the end Browne was accepted and of all the illustrators of those early editions he is the one par excellence, excepting only Luke Fildes R. A., the illustrator of the first edition of “Edwin Drood.” When Fildes interviewed Dickens preparatory to taking up this commission, he informed the author that although he appreciated the honour of being selected to illustrate “Edwin Drood,” he felt compelled to forego most reluctantly the pleasure of it if the designs had to be of a comic and wholly humorous nature after the manner of Phiz and his predecessors. He reminded Dickens that his writings possessed an intensely serious as well as a jocular side and would lend themselves admirably to a graver style of handling. Dickens replied that he was rather tired of having his illustrators consider him entirely as a humourist and caricaturist. While there is a vast difference between “Pickwick” and “Edwin Drood,” yet there is much of serious life depicted in the various escapades of the club, and it is the keen appreciation of this quality that seems to have escaped entirely the earlier artists. We turn to Charles Green and find in his series of large water-colours one entitled, “The Pickwick Club,” and our intimate friend clothed, not in caricature, but in all the atmosphere of reality, losing thereby none of his jovial and comic characteristics. The real Winkle, the real Snodgrass, the real Tupman, are listening to his address, and the unnatural elements of the first plates have given way to a more suitable form of expression though retaining the quaint humour of the text. Who does not find here the Pickwick we have always sought—the Pickwick created by Dickens? The writer has endeavoured to produce in this series of pictures the true atmosphere, human in the blending of the serious and the comic, and to give to them the semblance of reality produced in our minds by the text.