nd bellowing, and whistling, and moaning
through the speaking pipes of his bodily organ? I have told you it was a
very queer shock to me the other day when, with a letter of introduction
in his hand, the artist's (not my) Philip Firmin walked into this room,
and sat down in the chair opposite. In the novel of "Pendennis," written
ten years ago, there is an account of a certain Costigan, whom I had
invented (as I suppose authors invent their personages out of scraps,
heel-taps, odds and ends of characters). I was smoking in a tavern
parlor one night--and this Costigan came into the room alive--the very
man:--the most remarkable resemblance of the printed sketches of the
man, of the rude drawings in which I had depicted him. He had the same
little coat, the same battered hat, cocked on one eye, the same twinkle
in that eye. "Sir," said I, knowing him to be an old friend whom I
had met in unknown regions, "sir," I said, "may I offer you a glass of
brandy-and-water?" "Bedad, ye may," says he, "and I'll sing ye a song
tu." Of course he spoke with an Irish brogue. Of course he had been in
the army. In ten minutes he pulled out an Army Agent's account, whereon
his name was written. A few months after we read of him in a police
court. How had I come to know him, to divine him? Nothing shall convince
me that I have not seen that man in the world of spirits. In the world
of spirits and water I know I did: but that is a mere quibble of
words. I was not surprised when he spoke in an Irish brogue. I had had
cognizance of him before somehow. Who has not felt that little shock
which arises when a person, a place, some words in a book (there is
always a collocation) present themselves to you, and you know that you
have before met the same person, words, scene, and so forth?

They used to call the good Sir Walter the "Wizard of the North." What if
some writer should appear who can write so ENCHANTINGLY that he shall
be able to call into actual life the people whom he invents? What if
Mignon, and Margaret, and Goetz von Berlichingen are alive now (though
I don't say they are visible), and Dugald Dalgetty and Ivanhoe were to
step in at that open window by the little garden yonder? Suppose Uncas
and our noble old Leather Stocking were to glide silent in? Suppose
Athos, Porthos, and Aramis should enter with a noiseless swagger,
curling their moustaches? And dearest Amelia Booth, on Uncle Toby's arm;
and Tittlebat Titmouse, with his hair dyed