Sallie and Julia and I went shopping together Saturday morning. My own peculiar idiosyncrasy in the matter forbids me to do so. I do acknowledge that Mrs. Gamp, Micawber, Pecksniff, and others have become household words in every house, as though they were human beings; but to my judgment they are not human beings, nor are any of the characters human which Dickens has portrayed. It has been the peculiarity and the marvel of this man鈥檚 power, that he has invested, his puppets with a charm that has enabled him to dispense with human nature. There is a drollery about them, in my estimation, very much below the humour of Thackeray, but which has reached the intellect of all; while Thackeray鈥檚 humour has escaped the intellect of many. Nor is the pathos of Dickens human. It is stagey and melodramatic. But it is so expressed that it touches every heart a little. There is no real life in Smike. His misery, his idiotcy, his devotion for Nicholas, his love for Kate, are all overdone and incompatible with each other. But still the reader sheds a tear. Every reader can find a tear for Smike. Dickens鈥檚 novels are like Boucicault鈥檚 plays. He has known how to draw his lines broadly, so that all should see the colour. "Ah, I see I am not dealing with a tyro," said Mr. Evers with a flattering air of respect. Do you wish to do something, Daddy, that will ensure your 国产成 人 综合 亚洲 of carriages and automobiles that rolled out of the asylum gates. "You haven't spent any since you met Mother, have you?" she suggested maliciously. We drove across a succession of parks to visit[Pg 175] Sumer Mundir, a too elaborately carved temple, the panels representing scenes from the Ramayana set in ornamental borders. On the roof, which bristled with sculptured stone, thousands of blue pigeons were perched asleep, their iridescent plumage scarcely stirring in the sunshine. Beyond a tank at the end of the park was a palace in the Arab style with incredibly delicate ornaments of wrought marble, open halls painted in subdued colouring, and lighted by the golden reflections from the water. The pool had steps all round it, in which crowds seat themselves on the occasions of pilgrimage, and far away the enchanting vision of Benares, the holy city, in every shade of amber and honey. "What, may I ask, were the grounds?" probed Kennedy, growing bolder as he saw how frankly she elected to discuss the subject when cornered.