BOZ IN AMERICA.

BY THE EDITOR.

SINCE the voyages of Columbus in search of the New World, and of Raleigh in quest of El Dorado, no visit to America has excited so much interest and conjecture as that of the author of "Oliver Twist." The enterprise was understood to be a sort of Literary Expedition, for profit as well as pleasure: and many and strange were the speculations of the reading public as to the nature and value of the treasures which would be brought home by Dickens on his return. Some persons expected a philosophical comparison of Washington's Republic with that of Plato; others, anticipated a Report on the Banking System and Commercial Statistics of the United States; and some few, perhaps, looked for a Pamphlet on International Copyright. The general notion, however, was that the Transatlantic acquisitions of Boz would transpire in the shape of a Tale of American Life and Manners-and moreover that it would appear by monthly instalments in green covers, and illustrated by some artist with the name of Phiz, or Whiz, or Quiz.

So strong indeed was this impression, that certain blue-stockinged prophetesses even predicted a new Avatar of the celebrated Mr. Pickwick in slippers and loose trousers, a nankeen jacket, and a straw-hat, as large as an umbrella. Sam Weller was to reappear as his help, instead of a footman, still fuil of droll sayings, but in a slang more akin to that of his namesake the Clockmaker: while Weller, senior, was to revive on the box of a Boston long stage,-only calling himself Jonathan instead of Tony, and spelling it with a G. A Virginian widow

Bardell was a matter of course-and some visionaries even foresaw a slave-owning Mr. Snodgrass, a coon-hunting Mr. Winkle, a wideawake Joe, and a forest-clearing Bob Sawyer.*

The fallacy of these guesses and calculations was first proved by the announcement of "American Notes for General Circulation," a title that at once dissipated every dream of a Clock-case or a Club, and cut off all chance of a tale. Encouraged by the technical terms which seemingly had some reference to their own speculations, the moneymongers still held on faintly by their former opinion:-but the Romanticists were in despair, and reluctantly abandoned all hope of a Pennsylvanian Nicholas Nickleby affectionately darning his mother-a new Yorkshire Mr. Squeers flogging creation-a black Smike-a brown Kate, and a Bostonian Newman Noggs, alternately swallowing a cocktail and a cobbler.+

Still there remained enough in the announcement of American Notes, by C. Dickens, to strop the public curiosity to a keen edge. Numerous had been the writers on the land of the stars and stripes-a host of travelled ladies and gentlemen, liberals and illiberals, utilitarians

With the wishes of these admirers of Boz we can in some degree sympathize: for what could be a greater treat in the reading way than the perplexities of a squatting Mr. Pickwick, or a settling Mrs. Nickleby.

†Not a horse and a shoemender, but two sorts of American drink.

and inutilitarians-human bowls of every bias had trundled over the United States without hitting, or in the opinion of the natives, even coming near the jack. The Royalist missing the accustomed honours of Kings and Queens, saw nothing but a republican pack of knaves; the High Churchman, finding no established church, declared that there was no religion-the aristocrat swore that all was low and vulgar, because there were no servants in drab turned up with blue, or in green turned down with crimson-the radical was shocked by the caucus, the enthralment of public opinion, and the timidity of the preachers-the metaphysical philosopher was disgusted with the preponderance of the real over the ideal--the adventurer took fright at Lynch law, and the saintly abolitionist saw nothing but black angels and white devils. An impartial account of America and the Americans was still to seek, and accordingly the reading public on both sides of the Atlantic looked forward with anxiety and eagerness for the opinions of a writer who had proved by a series of wholesome fictions that his heart was in the right place, that his head was not in the wrong one, and that his hand was a good hand at description. One thing at least was certain, that nothing would be set down in malice; for compared with modern authors in general, Boz is remarkably free from sectarian or antisocial prejudices, and as to politics he seems to have taken the long pledge against party spirit. And doubtless one of the causes of his vast popularity has been the social and genial tone of his works,showing that he feels and acts on the true principle of the "homo sum"-a sum too generally worked as one in long Division instead of Addition.

In the mean time the book, after long budding in advertisement, has burst into full leaf, and however disconcerting to those persons who had looked for something quite different, will bring no disappointment to such as can be luxuriously content with good sense, good feeling, good fun, and good writing. In the very first half-dozen of pages the reader will find an example of that cheerful practical philosophy which makes the best of the worst-that happy healthy spirit which, instead of morbidly resenting the deception of a too flattering artist, who had lithographed the ship's accommodations, joined with him in converting a floating cupboard into a state-room, and a cabin "like a hearse with windows in it," into a handsome saloon. But we must skip the voyage, though pleasantly and graphically described, and at once land Boz in Boston, where, suffering from that true ground swell which annoys the newly landed, he goes rolling along the pitching passages of the Tremont hotel "with an involuntary imitation of the gait of Mr. T. P. Cooke in a new nautical melodrama.

Now, Boston is the modern Athens of America. Its inhabitants, many of them educated in the neighbouring university of Cambridge, are decidedly of a literary turn, and of course were not indifferent to the arrival of so distinguished an author in their city. Modesty, however, prevents him from recording in print the popular effervescencethe only fact which transpires is, that the first day being Sunday he was offered pews and sittings in churches and chapels, "enough for a score or two of grown up families." These courtesies, one and all, the traveller is obliged to decline for want of a change of dress,—a fortunate circumstance so far, that whilst the curious but serious Bostonians were

congregated elsewhere, he was enabled, accompanied by only a score or so of little boys and girls of no particular persuasion, to take a survey and a clever sketch (p. 59) of the city. On the Monday the case was evidently altered; for, after a visit to the State-house (p. 61), he was compelled to take refuge from the mob, in a place where he could not be made a sight or a show of the Massachussets Asylum for the Blind. Here he saw the interesting Laura Bridgman, a poor little girl, blind, deaf, dumb, destitute of the sense of smell, and almost of that of taste, yet thanks to a judicious and humane education, not altogether dark within, nor hapless without. The following picture is deeply touching; a mist comes over the clear eye in reading it.

Like other inmates of the house she had a green ribbon bound over her eyelids. A doll she had dressed lay near upon the ground. I took it up and saw that she had made a green fillet such as she wore herself, and fastened it about its mimic eyes.

But the mob has dispersed; at least the bulk of it, for not counting the children, there remain but fourteen autograph-hunters, six phrenologists, four portrait-painters, seven booksellers, five editors, and nineteen ladies, with handsomely-bound books in their hands or under their arms, on the steps and about the door of the Blind Asylum. And there they may be still, for somehow Boz has given them the slip, and in the turning of a leaf is at South Boston, in the state hospital for the insane -not however as a patient-for he was once deranged by proxy in some other person's intellects, but witnessing and admiring the rational and humane mode of treatment which, as at our own Hanwell Asylum, has replaced the brutal, brainless practice of the good old times when insanity was treated as a criminal offence,-the tortures abolished for felons were retained for lunatics, and their poor overheated brains had as much chance of cooling as under the Plombières of the Inquisition. Let the reader who has a mother turn to page 176 for a peep at a whimsical old lady, in the Hartford establishment, and then let him shudder to think that some fifty years ago the poor dear old soul would have been fettered, perhaps scourged, for only fancying herself an antediluvian! But to lighten a sad subject, let us smile at a characteristic interview between Boz and an Ophelia, in the same house.

As we were passing through a gallery on our way out, a well-dressed lady, of quiet and composed manners, came up, and proffering a slip of paper and a pen, begged that I would oblige her with an autograph. I complied, and we parted. I hope she is not mad (quoth the visiter) for I think I remember having had a few interviews like that with ladies out of doors.

Huzza! whoo-oop! A mob has gathered again, and before he has gone a page, Boz is obliged to get into the Boston House of Industry, thence into the adjoining Orphan Institution, and from that, but not mortally crushed, into the Hospital, all highly creditable establishments except in one iron feature," the eternal, accursed, suffocating, redhot, demon of a stove, whose breath would blight the purest air under heaven" and so it does-parching the lungs with baked air. We have had some experience of the nuisance in Germany; and never saw it lighted without wishing for a washerwoman, exorbitant in her charges, to blow it up. But we must push on, or the observed of all observers will be divided from us by a square mile of the Lowell Factory Milli

cents," all dressed out with parasols and silk-stockings," not white or flesh-colour, but blue, for these young women are decidedly literary, and besides subscribing to the circulating libraries, actually get up a periodical of their own!

The large class of readers startled by these facts will exclaim with one voice, "How very preposterous!" On my deferentially inquiring why, they will answer, "These things are above their station." In reply to that observation I would beg leave to ask what that station is.

What?-why, according to some of our moral stationers, the proper station for such people is the station-house, to which actors, singers, and dancers have so often been consigned in this country for acting, singing, and dancing upon too moderate terms. But better times seem to dawn-the licensing Justices begin to outvote the Injustices, and perhaps some day we shall have Playing and Dancing as well as Singing for the Million. Why not? Why should not the cheerful, amusing treatment which has proved so beneficial to the poor mad people, be equallyadvantageous to the poor sane ones?

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But to return to the Lowell lasses.-Pshaw! cries a literary fine gentleman, carelessly penning a sonnet, like Sir Roger de Coverley's ancestor, with his glove on, they are only a set of scribbling millers." No such thing. In the opinion of a very competent judge they write as well as most of our gifted creatures and talented pens, and their Offering" may compare advantageously with a great many of the English Annuals. An opinion not hastily formed, be it noted, but after the reading of " 400 solid pages from the beginning to the end." No wonder the gratified Authoresses escorted the Critic-as of course they did, to the Worcester railway, which on the 5th of February, 1842, was beset of course by an unusual crowd, behaving, of course, as another mob did afterwards at Baltimore, but which Boz evidently mistook for only an every-day ebullition of national curiosity.

Being rather early, those men and boys who happened to have nothing particular to do, and were curious in foreigners, came (according to custom) round the carriage in which I sat, let down all the windows; thrust in their heads and shoulders; hooked themselves on conveniently by their elbows; and fell to comparing notes on the subject of my personal appearance, with as much indifference as if I were a stuffed figure. I never gained so much uncompromising information with reference to my own nose and eyes, the various impressions wrought by my mouth and chin on different minds, and how my head looks when it's viewed from behind, as on these occasions. Some gentlemen were only satisfied by exercising their sense of touch; and the boys (who are surprisingly precocious in America) were seldom satisfied, even by that, but would return to the charge over and over again. Many a budding President has walked into my room with his cap on his head and his hands in his pockets, and stared at me for two whole hours: occasionally refreshing himself with a tweak at his nose, or a draught from the water-jug, or by walking to the windows and inviting other boys in the street below, to come up and do likewise crying, "Here he is!-Come on!-Bring all your brothers!" with other hospitable entreaties of that nature.

:

Here is another speculator on the Phenomenon, who evidently could not make up his mind whether the hairy covering of Boz was that of a real, or of a metaphorical Lion, p. 56.

Finding that nothing would satisfy him, I evaded his questions after the first score or two, and in particular pleaded ignorance respecting the fur

whereof my coat was made. I am unable to say whether this was the reason, but that coat fascinated him ever afterwards; he usually kept close behind me when I walked, and moved as I moved that he might look at it the better; and he frequently dived into narrow places after me, at the risk of his life, that he might have the satisfaction of passing his hand up the back, and rubbing it the wrong way.

From Worcester, still travelling like a Highland chieftain, with his tail on, or a fugitive with a tribe of Indians on his trail, the illustrious stranger railed on to Springfield; but there his voluntary followers were fixed. The Connecticut river being luckily unfrozen, Boz embarked, designedly, as it appears, in a steam-boat of about "half-apony power," and altogether so diminutive, that the few passengers the craft would carry "all kept the middle of the deck, lest the boat should unexpectedly tip over." But some buzz about Boz had certainly got before him, for at a small town on the way, the tiny steamer, or rather one of its passengers, was saluted by a gun considerably bigger than the funnel! (p. 174.) At Hartford, however, thanks to the Deaf and Dumb School, the common Gaol, the State Prison, and the Lunatic Asylum, the Dickens enjoyed four quiet days, and then embarked for New York in the New York,

Infinitely less like a steam-boat than a huge floating-bath. I could hardly persuade myself, indeed, but that the bathing establishment off Westminster Bridge, which I had left a baby, had suddenly grown to an enormous size; run away from home; and set up in foreign parts for a steamer.

At New York, in the Broadway, an ordinary man may find elbowroom; but Boz is no ordinary man, and accordingly for a little seclusion is glad to pay a visit to the famous Prison called the Tombs. But the mob, the male part at least, again separates, and the gaol visiter ventures forth, as it appears, a little prematurely.

Once more in Broadway! Here are the same ladies in bright colours, walking to and fro, in pairs and singly; yonder the very same light blue parasol which passed and repassed the hotel window twenty times while we were sitting there.

Heavens! what a prospect for a modest and a married man! Popularity is no doubt pleasant, and Boz is extremely popular, but popularity in America is no joke. It is not down in the book, but we happen to know, that between 8 and 10 A.M., it was as much as Dickens could do, with Mrs. Dickens's assistance, to write the required autographs. It was more than he could do between ten and twelve, to even look at the hospitable albums that were willing to take the stranger in. And now, not to forget the blue ladies in the Broadway, and the sulphur-coloured parasol, if he should happen to be recognised by yonder group of admirers and well-wishers he will have, before one could spell temperance, to swallow sangaree, ginsling, a mint julep, a cocktail, a sherry cobbler, and a timber doodle! In such a case the only resource is in flight, and like a hunted lion, rushing into a difficult and dangerous jungle, Boz plunges at once into the most inacessible back-slums of New York.

This is the place: these narrow ways, diverging to the right and left, and reeking every where with dirt and filth. Such lives as are led here, bear the same fruits here as elsewhere. The coarse and bloated faces at the doors, have counterparts at home, and all the wide world over. Debauchery has