indness, so that such a service as this came
as naturally to him as help from his purse.'"

Jerrold continues:--

"There was that boy-element in him which has been so often remarked
of men of genius. 'Why, we played a game of knock 'em down only a
week ago,' a friend remarked to me last June, with beaming eyes,
'and he showed all the old astonishing energy and delight in taking
aim at Aunt Sally.' My own earliest recollections of Dickens are of
his gayest moods, when the boy in him was exuberant, and leap-frog
and rounders were not sports too young for the player who had
written 'Pickwick' twenty years before. The sweet and holy lessons
which he presented to humanity out of the humble places in the
world could not have been evolved out of a nature less true and
sympathetic than his. It wanted such a man as Dickens was in his
life to be such a writer as he was for the world."

One more anecdote. J. C. Young tells us that one day Mrs. Henry Siddons,
a neighbor and intimate of Lord Jeffrey, who often entered his library
unannounced, opened the door very gently to see if he were there, and
saw enough at a glance to convince her that the visit was ill-timed. The
hard critic of the "Edinburgh Review" was sitting in his chair with his
head on the table in deep grief. As Mrs. Siddons was retiring, in the
hope that her entrance had been unnoticed, Jeffrey raised his head and
kindly beckoned her back. Perceiving that his cheek was flushed and his
eyes suffused with tears, she begged permission to withdraw. When he
found that she was intending to leave him, he rose from his chair, took
her by both hands, and led her to a seat.

"Don't go, my dear friend; I shall be right again in another minute."

"I had no idea you had had any bad news, or cause for grief, or I would
not have come. Is any one dead?"

"Yes, indeed. I'm a great goose to have given way so; but I could not
help it. You'll be sorry to hear that little Nelly, Boz's little Nelly,
is dead."

Dear, sweet, loving little Nell! We doubt if any other creation of poet
or novelist in any language has received the tribute of as many tears as
thou. From high, from low, on land, on sea, wherever thy story has been
read, there has been paid the spontaneous tribute of tears. Whether or
not many of the fantastic creations of the great master's hand will live
in the far future we cannot tell, but of thy immortalit