ings. He would have done very well for a quiet life, but was sadly unsuited to that lively atmosphere of burglary and housebreaking. "Aladdin," says Mr. Froude, "remained a poor creature, for all his genii." As for Nell, I doubt if it would ever occur to a small innocent reader to think of her as a child at all. I was far from critical in those early days, and much disposed to agree with Lamb's amiable friend that all books must necessarily be good books. Nell was, in my eyes, a miracle of courage and capacity, a creature to be believed in implicitly, to be revered and pitied; but she was not a little girl. I was a little girl myself, and I knew the difference.
It was Dickens who first gave children their prestige in fiction. Jeffrey, we are assured, shed tears over Nell; and Bret Harte, whose own pathos is so profoundly touching, describes for us the rude and haggard miners following her fortunes with breathless sympathy:
"While the whole camp with 'Nell' on English meadows,
Wandered and lost their way."
At present we are spared the heartrending childish deathbeds which Dickens made so painfully popular, because dying in novels
