Tom Cobb, both taciturn and profound smokers; and Solomon Daisy, that parochial Argus, studded all down his rusty black coat, and his long flapped waistcoat, with little queer buttons, like nothing except his eyes, but so like them, that as they twinkled and glistened in the light of the fire, which shone too in his bright shoe-buckles, he seemed all eyes from head to foot."

As illustrative of Mr. Dickens's love of animalsof ravens in particular—we may here be permitted to give his own remarks in a preface to the cheap edition of this work :-"As it is Mr. Waterton's opinion that ravens are gradually becoming extinct in England, I offer a few words here about mine.

"The raven in this story is a compound of two great originals, of whom I have been, at different times, the proud possessor. The first was in the bloom of his youth, when he was discovered in a modest retirement, in London, by a friend of mine, and given to me. He had from the first, as Sir Hugh Evans says of Anne Page, 'good gifts,' which he improved by study and attention in a most exemplary manner. He slept in a stable-generally on horseback-and so terrified a Newfoundland dog by his preternatural sagacity, that he has been known, by the mere superiority of his genius, to walk off unmolested with the dog's dinner from before his face. He was rapidly rising in acquirements and virtues, when, in an evil hour, his stable was newly painted. He observed the workmen closely, saw that they were

G

careful of the paint, and immediately burned to possess it. On their going to dinner, he ate up all they had left behind, consisting of a pound or two of white lead; and this youthful indiscretion terminated in death.

"While I was yet inconsolable for his loss, another friend of mine in Yorkshire discovered an older and more gifted raven at a village public-house, which he prevailed upon the landlord to part with for a consideration, and sent up to me. The first act of this Sage was, to administer to the effects of his predecessor, by disinterring all the cheese and halfpence he had buried in the garden-a work of immense labour and research, to which he devoted all the energies of his mind. When he had achieved this task, he applied himself to the acquisition of stable language, in which he soon became such an adept, that he would perch outside my window and drive imaginary horses with great skill, all day. Perhaps even I never saw him at his best, for his former master sent his duty with him, 'and if I wished the bird to come out very strong, would I be so good as to show him a drunken man 'which I never did, having (fortunately) none but sober people at hand. But I could hardly have respected him more, whatever the stimulating influences of this sight might have been. He had not the slightest respect, I am sorry to say, for me in return, or for anybody but the cook; to whom he was attached-but only, I fear, as a policeman might have been. Once, I met him unexpectedly, about

half a mile off, walking down the middle of the public street, attended by a pretty large crowd, and spontaneously exhibiting the whole of his accomplishments. His gravity under those trying circumstances I never can forget, nor the extraordinary gallantry with which, refusing to be brought home, he defended. himself behind a pump, until overpowered by numbers. It may have been that he was too bright a genius to live long, or it may have been that he took some pernicious substance into his bill, and thence into his maw—which is not improbable, sceing that he newpointed the greater part of the garden wall by digging out the mortar, broke countless squares of glass by scraping away the putty all round the frames, and tore up and swallowed, in splinters, the greater part of a wooden staircase of six steps and a landing-but after some three years he too was taken ill, and died before the kitchen fire. He kept his eye to the last upon the meat as it roasted, and suddenly turned over on his back with a sepulchral cry of 'Cuckoo !' Since then I have been ravenless."

It is just worth while to remark, in connection with this fondness for ravens, that a personal friend, a bad punster, being at a party, and remarking on the mania Dickens seemed to have for these birds, said, "Dickens is raven mad." This, being repeated, gave rise to a report, which was industriously spread by his detractors, that "Dickens was raving mad," and "was confined in a madhouse," and other silly

rumours.

careful of the paint, and immediately burned to possess it. On their going to dinner, he ate up all they had left behind, consisting of a pound or two of white lead; and this youthful indiscretion terminated in death.

"While I was yet inconsolable for his loss, another friend of mine in Yorkshire discovered an older and more gifted raven at a village public-house, which he prevailed upon the landlord to part with for a consideration, and sent up to me. The first act of this Sage was, to administer to the effects of his predecessor, by disinterring all the cheese and halfpence he had buried in the garden-a work of immense labour and research, to which he devoted all the energies of his mind. When he had achieved this task, he applied himself to the acquisition of stable language, in which he soon became such an adept, that he would perch outside my window and drive imaginary horses with great skill, all day. Perhaps even I never saw him at his best, for his former master sent his duty with him, 'and if I wished the bird to come out very strong, would I be so good as to show him a drunken man ’— which I never did, having (fortunately) none but sober people at hand. But I could hardly have respected him more, whatever the stimulating influences of this sight might have been. He had not the slightest respect, I am sorry to say, for me in return, or for anybody but the cook; to whom he was attached-but only, I fear, as a policeman might have been. Once, I met him unexpectedly, about

half a mile off, walking down the middle of the public street, attended by a pretty large crowd, and spontaneously exhibiting the whole of his accomplishments. His gravity under those trying circumstances I never can forget, nor the extraordinary gallantry with which, refusing to be brought home, he defended himself behind a pump, until overpowered by numbers. It may have been that he was too bright a genius to live long, or it may have been that he took some pernicious substance into his bill, and thence into his maw—which is not improbable, seeing that he newpointed the greater part of the garden wall by digging out the mortar, broke countless squares of glass by scraping away the putty all round the frames, and tore up and swallowed, in splinters, the greater part of a wooden staircase of six steps and a landing-but after some three years he too was taken ill, and died before the kitchen fire. He kept his eye to the last upon the meat as it roasted, and suddenly turned over on his back with a sepulchral cry of 'Cuckoo!' Since then I have been ravenless."

It is just worth while to remark, in connection with this fondness for ravens, that a personal friend, a bad punster, being at a party, and remarking on the mania Dickens seemed to have for these birds, said, "Dickens is raven mad." This, being repeated, gave rise to a report, which was industriously spread by his detractors, that "Dickens was raving mad,” and "was confined in a madhouse," and other silly

rumours.