“I have read ‘Roderick Random,’” I answered, “and think it in parts as funny as ‘Pickwick.’” “No, no!” he exclaimed, seating himself near the open window, whilst I, seeing it was not his intention to leave, pulled off my coat, and fell to cooling my face in a basin of water, “nothing equal to Pickwick was ever written. Dickens is a truer humourist than Smollett, and what’s more,” he added, warmly, “there are portions of his writings of which the irony is as good as anything to be found in Swift. Tell me in what particular Dickens isn’t a match for any writer that’s gone before him? His knowledge of human nature is as great as Fielding’s; his pathos is deeper and truer than Sterne’s; he is as tender as Goldsmith, and far funnier than Smollett, who is always farcical when he is comical. I love this great man, and reverence him for the noble use he has made of his noble genius. May the day never break,” he exclaimed, with a solemnity that astonished me, “when Dickens shall cease to be admired; for then surely will all the fine qualities that make up the English character, the love of country, sympathy with the suffering, affection for the past, hatred of cant, and devotion to all that is manly and honest and true, have perished from among us. Whilst these qualities last Dickens will last; his fame rests upon them.” So saying, he pulled out a cigar-case, asked me if I would smoke, and on my declining, began to puff away like a steam-engine. “We may do what we like here,” said he, with a grin. “Nothing to beat liberty,” I replied. “And yet,” said he, expelling a great cloud of smoke with a sigh, “our happiest days are most often the days of restraint. When my poor wife was alive my liberties were jealously curtailed; and now I would give up every liberty I possess to clasp her dear hand again, to look into her dear eyes.” “Does Theresa resemble you or her mother?” “There is a mingling of us both in her. But the mother preponderates. She has profound passions, the deepest nature a woman ever had. Such tenderness! such generous impulses! She has not her equal.” Good gracious! I thought. How affection blinds us! Tender, indeed--confound her! she nearly killed me! And here I thought of Conny, and inwardly groaned, “Always thine, my own! faithful unto the end!” “Shall we go down-stairs?” asked my uncle. “I am ready,” I replied; and we left the room. But we didn’t go down-stairs at once. My uncle was very proud of his house, and was evidently determined to lose no time in showing me over it. My amiability was proof against my weariness; but I really shuddered at the prospect of being shown into, perhaps, twenty rooms, and detained on each threshold in order to hear the literary and social history that made up the interest of the floors and walls.