ccasions, safely piloted across the stormy traffic of
Dock Square. _Noblesse oblige!_ He was no stranger in those purlieus.
Without designing to confuse small things with great, I may say that a
certain strip of pavement in North Street could be pointed out as Tom
Folio's Walk, just as Addison's Walk is pointed out on the banks of the
Cherwell at Oxford.

I used to observe that when Tom Folio was not in quest of a print or a
pamphlet or some such urgent thing, but was walking for mere recreation,
he instinctively avoided respectable latitudes. He liked best the
squalid, ill-kept thoroughfares shadowed by tall, smudgy tenement-houses
and teeming with unprosperous, noisy life. Perhaps he had, half
consciously, a sense of subtle kinship to the unsuccess and cheerful
resignation of it all.

Returning home from abroad one October morning several years ago, I was
told that that simple spirit had passed on. His death had been little
heeded; but in him had passed away an intangible genuine bit of Old
Boston--as genuine a bit, in its kind, as the Autocrat himself--a
personality not to be restored or replaced. Tom Folio could never happen
again!

Strolling to-day through the streets of the older section of the town,
I miss many a venerable landmark submerged in the rising tide of change,
but I miss nothing quite so much as I do the sight of Tom Folio entering
the doorway of the Old Corner Bookstore, or carefully taking down
a musty volume from its shelf at some melancholy old book-stall on
Cornhill.

FLEABODY AND OTHER QUEER NAMES

WHEN an English novelist does us the honor to introduce any of our
countrymen into his fiction, he generally displays a commendable
desire to present something typical in the way of names for his
adopted characters--to give a dash of local color, as it were, with his
nomenclature. His success is seldom commensurate to the desire. He falls
into the error of appealing to his invention, instead of consulting
some city directory, in which he would find more material than he could
exhaust in ten centuries. Charles Reade might have secured in the pages
of such a compendium a happier title than Fullalove for his Yankee
sea-captain; though I doubt, on the whole, if Anthony Trollope could
have discovered anything better than Olivia Q. Fleabody for the young
woman from "the States" in his novel called "Is He Popenjoy?"

To christen a sprightly young female advocate of woman's rights Olivia
Q. Fleab