purveyor of how much happiness; the friend whom we recall as the constant benefactor of our youth!  How well I remember the type and the brownish paper of the old duodecimo “Tales of my Landlord!” I have never dared to read the “Pirate,” and the “Bride of Lammermoor,” or “Kenilworth,” from that day to this, because the finale is unhappy, and people die, and are murdered at the end.  But “Ivanhoe,” and “Quentin Durward!” Oh! for a half-holiday, and a quiet corner, and one of those books again!  Those books, and perhaps those eyes with which we read them; and, it may be, the brains behind the eyes!  It may be the tart was good; but how fresh the appetite was!  If the gods would give me the desire of my heart, I should be able to write a story which boys would relish for the next few dozen of centuries.  The boy-critic loves the story:  grown up, he loves the author who wrote the story.  Hence the kindly tie is established between writer and reader, and lasts pretty nearly for life.  I meet people now who don’t care for Walter Scott, or the “Arabian Nights;” I am sorry for them, unless they in their time have found their romancer—­their charming Scheherazade.  By the way, Walter, when you are writing, tell me who is the favorite novelist in the fourth form now? have you got anything so good and kindly as dear Miss Edgeworth’s Frank?  It used to belong to a fellow’s sisters generally; but though he pretended to despise it, and said, “Oh, stuff for girls!” he read it; and I think there were one or two passages which would try my eyes now, were I to meet with the little book.

As for Thomas and Jeremiah (it is only my witty way of calling Tom and Jerry), I went to the British Museum the other day on purpose to get it; but somehow, if you will press the question so closely, on reperusal, Tom and Jerry is not so brilliant as I had supposed it to be.  The pictures are just as fine as ever; and I shook hands with broad-backed Jerry Hawthorn and Corinthian Tom with delight, after many years’ absence.  But the style of the writing, I own, was not pleasing to me; I even thought it a little vulgar—­well! well! other writers have been considered vulgar—­and as a description of the sports and amusements of London in the ancient times, more curious than amusing.

But the pictures!—­oh! the pictures are noble still!  First, there is Jerry arriving from the country, in a green coat and leather gaiters, and being measured for a fashionable suit at Corinthian House, by Corinthian Tom’s tailor.  Then away for the career of pleasure and fashion.  The park! delicious excitement!  The theatre! the saloon!! the green-room!!!  Rapturous bliss—­the opera itself! and then perhaps to Temple Bar, to knock down A Charley there!  There are Jerry and Tom, with their tights and little cocked hats, coming from the opera—­very much as gentlemen in waiting on royalty are habited now.  There they are at Almack’s itself, amidst a crowd of high-bred