half-a-dozen nights ago,—"Je souffre, mais
je souffre—gaiement" (I suffer; but I suffer
cheerfully).

MUCH TOO GOOD BOYS.

CANNOT boys read of a man's adventures—
real or imaginary—in wild regions of the
world, and follow with their fancies his
career of peril, observe his ingenuity when
left to depend wholly on his own resources,
triumph in his triumphs, and long to become
also, one day, active, handy, ready witted,
fearless men?  Do boys like a Robinson
Crusoe better when they get him
sublimated into Louis, the giddy boy and Louis's
mamma and Mathilde, like a dear much
too good girl as she is, and Master
Hector? I had been reading books written
as Christmas books for (much too good) boys,
with a view to the selection of a dozen or
two for my grandchildren, and I read till I
was ready to beat my head against the corner
of the mantelpiece. Albert Pugby, or a Boy's
Adventures in the Wilds of Africa. The
Steppes; or Peterkin in Asia. John Jones,
or a Boy's Adventures in the Forests of
America. The Australian Crusoe, or Little
Billy in the Bush. Tom Frost, or a Baby's
Residence upon the Top of Dhawalagiri, &c.,
&c., &c., &c., &c. Bold boys and girls, goody
boys and girls, solicitous mammas and priggish
explanatory papas, whose heads also I yearned
to knock against the corner of the mantelpiece,
sat like one mass of nightmare on my
stomach, and disturbed my nap after the
New Year's dinner. I had done my duty,
and provided in addition to a few boys' books
of the day that were found to be free from
all this twaddle, my old friends the Arabian
Nights and the Tales of the Genii, and the
real Crusoe, and the Seven Champions of
Christendom. But of those Champions it is
great wonder to me that the story has not
been recast after the fashion of the time,
which should present them as Master George,
and Master Patrick, and live other little
Masters, with a Master Arthur to play round
games at his table, who should have a mamma
to refer to upon all occasions and a papa to
tell him that "It has been supposed by some
that Saint Paul, the great Apostle of the
Gentiles, might have visited Britain, and I
am sure it will be interesting to you, my
dear Arthur, if I state the grounds upon
which a supposition of this nature may be
regarded as extremely probable." Arthur
duly responding, "O, yes, do, papa!" Enough.
My dinner was spoilt in my stomach, and I
read indignantly a nightmare tale for boys,
under the handkerchief which covers my face
after I have dined. A streak of pantomime
seems to have coloured it, for I had been
taking our young people to sundry Christmas
entertainments at which they had been
especially regaled with brilliant transformation
scenes and huge bewilderment of crippled
puns and many parodies of Hoop de doodem
doo. Out of a square book with a scarlet
cover, upon which were golden pictures of
strange monsters, I seemed to be reading
something like what follows:

Franklin Bruce was a bad boy. Everybody
liked him, but his Aunt Grumbletub said he
was a bad boy, and as he lived with her, and
as she was his only known relation, she was
likely to be well informed about him. Out
of her house he was so good-tempered and
brave that everybody loved him. Aunt
Grumbletub had a turned-up nose—a very
much turned-up nose—so much so, indeed,
that it presented a front view of the nostrils.
It was an aggravating nose, too, for the old
lady's spectacles refused to rest on any part
of it except the extreme point. Mrs.
Grumbletub invariably placed them on the right
part of her nose, and they as invariably slid
down the curved slope until they were brought
up by the little hillock at the end. There
they condescended to repose in peace.

"Have you learnt your Latin verb, Franklin,
and done your sum ?" asked this lady of
the rosy boy whose fair hair and bronzed
complexion bespoke his familiarity with
outdoor sports.

"The rule of three does puzzle me,"
replied the boy with a smile, and in a tone that
betrayed the presence of some foreign body
in his mouth.

"Take that nasty thing out of your mouth,
whatever it is!" cried Mrs. Grumbletub, her
dark eyes flashing fire.

"Nay, aunt," replied the boy, "I did but
suck my alley tor."

"Obey me, torment!" cried the aunt.

"You are my Mentor," replied the boy,
"and I obey."

"Alley tor Jericho!" exclaimed the
infuriated woman, casting the devoted marble
through the open window. "O that I could
but send you after it!"

"I go," said the boy, and spitting on his
slate, he wiped from it with his sleeve the
unfinished rule-of-three sum, and without
stopping to put on his cap, went out at his aunt's
door with the design of travelling to Jericho.

As he walked rapidly down the village,
Franklin observed a man with shaggy hair,
two wooden legs, one eye, one arm, and an
anchor tattooed on his cheek, who was
waltzing with a monkey on the green before
the village inn. Curiosity induced him to
pause and observe this singular pair, and
with the thoughtless generosity of youth he
expressed his pleasure at the entertainment
thus afforded him by putting into the man's
hat, when the monkey brought it round
among the bystanders, a new sixpence which
was all the money he had in the world.

"Good morrow, noble sir," said the sailor,
for such apparently he was, when he had
overtaken the boy in a green lane at a
distance of some miles from the village of Dash,
in which his aunt resided. "We seem to be