Bob’s behavior on New Year’s day, I can assure Dr. Holyshade, was highly creditable to the boy.  He had expressed a determination to partake of every dish which was put on the table; but after soup, fish, roast-beef, and roast-goose, he retired from active business until the pudding and mince-pies made their appearance, of which he partook liberally, but not too freely.  And he greatly advanced in my good opinion by praising the punch, which was of my own manufacture, and which some gentlemen present (Mr. O’M—­g—­n, amongst others) pronounced to be too weak.  Too weak!  A bottle of rum, a bottle of Madeira, half a bottle of brandy, and two bottles and a half of water—­can this mixture be said to be too weak for any mortal?  Our young friend amused the company during the evening by exhibiting a two-shilling magic-lantern, which he had purchased, and likewise by singing “Sally, come up!” a quaint, but rather monotonous melody, which I am told is sung by the poor negro on the banks of the broad Mississippi.

What other enjoyments did we proffer for the child’s amusement during the Christmas week?  A great philosopher was giving a lecture to young folks at the British Institution.  But when this diversion was proposed to our young friend Bob, he said, “Lecture?  No, thank you.  Not as I knows on,” and made sarcastic signals on his nose.  Perhaps he is of Dr. Johnson’s opinion about lectures:  “Lectures, sir! what man would go to hear that imperfectly at a lecture, which he can read at leisure in a book?” I never went, of my own choice, to a lecture; that I can vow.  As for sermons, they are different; I delight in them, and they cannot, of course, be too long.

Well, we partook of yet other Christmas delights besides pantomime, pudding, and pie.  One glorious, one delightful, one most unlucky and pleasant day, we drove in a brougham, with a famous horse, which carried us more quickly and briskly than any of your vulgar railways, over Battersea Bridge, on which the horse’s hoofs rung as if it had been iron; through suburban villages, plum-caked with snow; under a leaden sky, in which the sun hung like a red-hot warming-pan; by pond after pond, where not only men and boys, but scores after scores of women and girls, were sliding, and roaring, and clapping their lean old sides with laughter, as they tumbled down, and their hobnailed shoes flew up in the air; the air frosty with a lilac haze, through which villas, and commons, and churches, and plantations glimmered.  We drive up the hill, Bob and I; we make the last two miles in eleven minutes; we pass that poor, armless man who sits there in the cold, following you with his eyes.  I don’t give anything, and Bob looks disappointed.  We are set down neatly at the gate, and a horse-holder opens the brougham door.  I don’t give anything; again disappointment on Bob’s part.  I pay a shilling apiece, and we enter into the glorious building, which is decorated for Christmas, and straight-way