Shakespeare has his Gobbo, Touchstone, Simpcox, Sly, Grumio, Mopsa, Pinch, Nym, Simple, Quickly, Overdone, Elbow, Froth, Dogberry, Puck, Peablossom, Taurus, Bottom, Bushy, Hotspur, Scroop, Wall, Flute, Snout, Starveling, Moonshine, Mouldy, Shallow, Wart, Bullcalf, Feeble, Quince, Snag, Dull, Mustardseed, Fang, Snare, Rumor, Tearsheet, Cobweb, Costard and Moth; but in names as well as in plot “the father of Pickwick” has distanced the Master.  In fact, to give all the odd and whimsical names invented by Dickens would be to publish a book, for he compiled an indexed volume of names from which he drew at will.  He used, however, but a fraction of his list.  The rest are wisely kept from the public, else, forsooth, the fledgling writers of penny-shockers would seize upon them for raw stock.

Dickens has a watch that starts and stops in a way of its own—­never mind the sun.  He lets you see the wheels go round, but he never tells you why the wheels go round.  He knows little of psychology—­that curious, unseen thing that stands behind every act.  He knows not the highest love, therefore he never depicts the highest joy.  Nowhere does he show the gradual awakening in man of Godlike passion—­nowhere does he show the evolution of a soul; very, very seldom does he touch the sublime.

But he has given the Athenians a day of pleasure, and for this let us all reverently give thanks.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH

Jarvis:  A few of our usual cards of compliments—­that’s all.  This bill from your tailor; this from your mercer; and this from the little broker in Crooked Lane.  He says he has been at a great deal of trouble to get back the money you borrowed.

    Honeydew:  But I am sure we were at a great deal of trouble in
    getting him to lend it.

    Jarvis:  He has lost all patience.

    Honeydew:  Then he has lost a good thing.

    Jarvis:  There’s that ten guineas you were sending to the poor man
    and his children in the Fleet.  I believe that would stop his
    mouth for a while.

    Honeydew:  Ay, Jarvis; but what will fill their mouths in the
    meantime?

    —­Goldsmith, “The Good-Natured Man"

[Illustration:  OLIVER GOLDSMITH]

The Isle of Erin has the same number of square miles as the State of Indiana; it also has more kindness to the acre than any other country on earth.

Ireland has five million inhabitants; once it had eight.  Three millions have gone away, and when one thinks of landlordism he wonders why the five millions did not go, too.  But the Irish are a poetic people and love the land of their fathers with a childlike love, and their hearts are all bound up in sweet memories, rooted by song and legend into nooks and curious corners, so the tendrils of affection hold them fast.

Ireland is very beautiful.  Its pasture-lands and meadow-lands, blossom-decked and water-fed, crossed and recrossed by never-ending hedgerows, that stretch away and lose themselves in misty nothingness, are fair as a poet’s dream.  Birds carol in the white hawthorn and the yellow furze all day long, and the fragrant summer winds that blow lazily across the fields are laden with the perfume of fairest flowers.