afterwards the Duke paid a hundred guineas to get it back again,—­and that, on getting it, he instantly burned it, exclaiming, that, when he wrote it, he must have been the greatest idiot on the face of the earth.  Doubtless, if we had seen that letter, we should have heartily coincided in the sentiment of the hero.  He was an idiot when he wrote it, but he did not think that he was one.  I think, however, that there is a standard of sense and folly, and that there is a point at which Veal is Veal no more.  But I do not believe that thought can justly be called mature only when it has become such as to suit the taste of some desperately dry old gentleman, with as much feeling as a log of wood, and as much imagination as an oyster.  I know how intolerant some dull old fogies are of youthful fire and fancy.  I shall not be convinced that any discourse is puerile because it is pronounced such by the venerable Dr. Dryasdust.  I remember that the venerable man has written many pages, possibly abundant in sound sense, but which no mortal could read, and to which no mortal could listen.  I remember, that, though that not very amiable individual has outlived such wits as he once had, he has not outlived the unbecoming emotions of envy and jealousy; and he retains a strong tendency to evil-speaking and slandering.  You told me, unamiable individual, how disgusted you were at hearing a friend of mine, who is one of the best preachers in Britain, preach one of his finest sermons.  Perhaps you really were disgusted:  there is such a thing as casting pearls before swine, who will not appreciate them highly.  But you went on to give an account of what the great preacher said; and though I know you are extremely stupid, you are not quite so stupid as to have actually fancied that the great preacher said what you reported that he said:  you were well aware that you were grossly misrepresenting him.  And when I find malice and insincerity in one respect, I am ready to suspect them in another:  and I venture to doubt whether you were disgusted.  Possibly you were only ferocious at finding yourself so unspeakably excelled.  But even if you had been really disgusted, and even if you were a clever man, and even if you were above the suspicion of jealousy, I should not think that my friend’s noble discourse was puerile because you thought it so.  It is not when the warm feelings of earlier days are dried up into a cold, time-worn cynicism, that I think a man has become the best judge of the products of the human brain and heart.  It is a noble thing when a man grows old retaining something of youthful freshness and fervor.  It is a fine thing to ripen without shrivelling,—­ to reach the calmness of age, yet keep the warm heart and ready sympathy of youth.  Show me such a man as that, and I shall be content to bow to his decision whether a thing be Veal or not.  But as such men are not found very frequently, I should suggest it as an approximation to a safe criterion, that a