o rot! _His_
would, of course, by sympathy, and I presume spoilt his linen or
clothes, for I have never heard of him since. Perhaps he thought I had
_done_ him on purpose, and for sartin the tree, my accomplice, never
bore any more pears, good or bad, after that supernatural crop.

Pray present my respects for me to Mrs. Dickens. How she must enjoy
being at home and discovering her children, after her Columbusing, and
only discovering America!

TO THE MANCHESTER ATHENAEUM

_The uses of literature_

(From my bed)

17 Elm Tree Road, St. John's Wood, 18 _July_, 1843.

GENTLEMEN,

If my humble name can be of the least use for your purpose, it is
heartily at your service, with my best wishes for the prosperity of
the Manchester Athenaeum, and my warmest approval of the objects of
that Institution.

I have elsewhere recorded my own deep obligations to Literature--that
a natural turn for reading, and intellectual pursuits, probably
preserved me from the moral shipwreck so apt to befall those who are
deprived in early life of the paternal pilotage. At the very least my
books kept me aloof from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the
saloons, with their degrading orgies. For the closet associate of Pope
and Addison, the mind accustomed to the noble, though silent discourse
of Shakespeare and Milton, will hardly seek, or put up with low
company and slang. The reading animal will not be content with the
brutish wallowings that satisfy the unlearned pigs of the world.
Later experience enables me to depose to the comfort and blessing that
literature can prove in seasons of sickness and sorrow; how powerfully
intellectual pursuits can help in keeping the head from crazing, and
the heart from breaking; nay, not to be too grave, how generous mental
food can even atone for a meagre diet; rich fare on the paper, for
short commons on the cloth.

Poisoned by the malaria of the Dutch marshes, my stomach for many
months resolutely set itself against fish, flesh, or fowl; my appetite
had no more edge than the German knife placed before me. But luckily
the mental palate and digestion were still sensible and vigorous; and
whilst I passed untasted every dish at the Rhenish table-d'-hote,
I could still enjoy my _Peregrine Pickle_, and the feast after the
manner of the Ancients. There was no yearning towards calf's head
_a la tortue_, or sheep's heart; but I could still relish Head _a la
Brunnen_, and the _Heart of Mid-Lothia