ith whose sorrows we have sympathized, and over
each and all of whom we have wept hot tears in the days that are no
more. Dream-children, he calls them; but the great world acknowledges
them as real beings, and sorrows and rejoices with them, even more, it
is to be feared, than it does sometimes with the children of flesh and
blood, homeless and forsaken as many of them are. But for the sake of
Tiny Tim many an old Scrooge has softened his hard heart somewhat; and
in memory of poor Joe many a hardened city man has been a little less
imperious to the beggar-boy about "moving on." Even poor Smike has
served the purpose of ameliorating a trifle the hard lot of such
unfortunates as he, who are tyrannized over in public institutions; and,
altogether, Dickens's dream-children can be said to have been useful in
their day and generation.

How the other old friends come following on! We have our own peculiar
greeting for each. We cannot help holding our sides as Mr. Pickwick and
Sam Weller go by, followed by Captain Cuttle with his hook, the finest
gentleman of them all; by the Major and Mrs. Bagnet, by whom discipline
is maintained in the group; by Micawber, with his large outlines and
flowing periods; and by Mrs. Micawber and her relations, senseless
imbeciles or unmitigated scoundrels all, as her husband testifies; by
Mrs. Gamp, by Barkis, and even the young man by the name of Guppy. A
smile spreads over the face of the whole reading world at the bare
mention of their names. How the smiles deepen into tears as we think
over the other friends to whom he has introduced us,--mutual friends of
us all; of whom we talk when we congregate together, with just as much
of real feeling and interest as we do of other friends of flesh and
blood, laugh over their foibles and follies, pity their sorrows, blame
their acts, and all with no other feeling than that of utter reality.

Will little Nell's friend, the old schoolmaster, ever cease to draw
tears from our eyes? Shall we ever weary of gentle Tom Pinch? Shall we
not always touch our hats to Joe Gargery? Shall we ever cease loving Mr.
Jarndyce, even when the wind is in the east? And will Agnes and Esther
ever pall upon our taste? Not, we verily believe, until the sources of
feeling are dried up in us forever, and we have grown indifferent to all
of earth. What an array of them there are, too! The bare catalogue of
their names would fill a volume, and it would not be bad reading to the
g