Now the boy has grown bigger.  He has got on a black gown and cap, something like the dervish.  He is at a table, with ever so many bottles on it, and fruit, and tobacco; and other young dervishes come in.  They seem as if they were singing.  To them enters an old moollah, he takes down their names, and orders them all to go to bed.  What is this? a carriage, with four beautiful horses all galloping—­a man in red is blowing a trumpet.  Many young men are on the carriage—­one of them is driving the horses.  Surely they won’t drive into that?—­ah! they have all disappeared.  And now I see one of the young men alone.  He is walking in a street—­a dark street—­presently a light comes to a window.  There is the shadow of a lady who passes.  He stands there till the light goes out.  Now he is in a room scribbling on a piece of paper, and kissing a miniature every now and then.  They seem to be lines each pretty much of a length.  I can read heart, smart, dart; Mary, fairy; Cupid, stupid; true, you; and never mind what more.  Bah! it is bosh.  Now see, he has got a gown on again, and a wig of white hair on his head, and he is sitting with other dervishes in a great room full of them, and on a throne in the middle is an old Sultan in scarlet, sitting before a desk, and he wears a wig too—­and the young man gets up and speaks to him.  And now what is here?  He is in a room with ever so many children, and the miniature hanging up.  Can it be a likeness of that woman who is sitting before that copper urn, with a silver vase in her hand, from which she is pouring hot liquor into cups?  Was she ever a fairy?  She is as fat as a hippopotamus now.  He is sitting on a divan by the fire.  He has a paper on his knees.  Read the name of the paper.  It is the Superfine Review.  It inclines to think that Mr. Dickens is not a true gentleman, that Mr. Thackeray is not a true gentleman, and that when the one is pert and the other is arch, we, the gentlemen of the Superfine Review, think, and think rightly, that we have some cause to be indignant.  The great cause why modern humor and modern sentimentalism repel us, is that they are unwarrantably familiar.  Now, Mr. Sterne, the Superfine Reviewer thinks, “was a true sentimentalist, because he was above all things a true gentleman.”  The flattering inference is obvious:  let us be thankful for having an elegant moralist watching over us, and learn, if not too old, to imitate his high-bred politeness and catch his unobtrusive grace.  If we are unwarrantably familiar, we know who is not.  If we repel by pertness, we know who never does.  If our language offends, we know whose is always modest.  O pity!  The vision has disappeared off the silver, the images of youth and the past are vanishing away!  We who have lived before railways were made, belong to another world.  In how many hours could the Prince of Wales drive from Brighton to London, with a light carriage built expressly, and relays of horses longing