he academic flats of Trumpington? Know ye that in
mathematics, or logic, this wretched ignoramus is not fit to hold a
candle to a wooden spoon? See ye not how, from describing law humours,
he now, forsooth, will attempt the sublime? Discern ye not his faults of
taste, his deplorable propensity to write blank verse? Come back to your
ancient, venerable, and natural instructors. Leave this new, low and
intoxicating draught at which ye rush, and let us lead you back to the
old wells of classic lore. Come and repose with us there. We are your
gods; we are the ancient oracles, and no mistake. Come listen to us once
more, and we will sing to you the mystic numbers of _as in presenti_
under the arches of the _Pons asinorum_." But the children of the
present generation hear not; for they reply, "Rush to the Strand, and
purchase five thousand more copies of the _Christmas Carol_."

In fact, one might as well detail the plot of the _Merry Wives of
Windsor_ or _Robinson Crusoe_, as recapitulate here the adventures of
Scrooge the miser, and his Christmas conversion. I am not sure that the
allegory is a very complete one, and protest, with the classics, against
the use of blank verse in prose; but here all objections stop. Who can
listen to objections regarding such a book as this? It seems to me a
national benefit, and to every man or woman who reads it a personal
kindness. The last two people I heard speak of it were women; neither
knew the other, or the author, and both said, by way of criticism, "God
bless him!" A Scotch philosopher, who nationally does not keep
Christmas, on reading the book, sent out for a turkey, and asked two
friends to dine--this is a fact! Many men were known to sit down after
perusing it, and write off letters to their friends, not about business,
but out of their fulness of heart, and to wish old acquaintances a happy
Christmas. Had the book appeared a fortnight earlier, all the prize
cattle would have been gobbled up in pure love and friendship, Epping
denuded of sausages, and not a turkey left in Norfolk. His royal
highness's fat stock would have fetched unheard of prices, and Alderman
Bannister would have been tired of slaying. But there is a Christmas for
1844 too; the book will be as early then as now, and so let speculators
look out.

As for TINY TIM, there is a certain passage in the book regarding that
young gentleman, about which a man should hardly venture to speak in
print or in public, any m