"My dear fellow, I remember I asked you in that letter to accept a
silver mug in token of our pleasant days together, and to drink a
health sometimes in it to a sincere friend.... Smith and Elder write
me word they have sent by a Cunard to Boston a packet of paper,
stamped etc. in London. I want it to be taken from the Custom-House,
dooties paid etc., and dispatched to Miss ----, New York. Hold your
tongue, and don't laugh, you rogue. Why shouldn't she have her
paper, and I my pleasure, without your wicked, wicked sneers and
imperence? I'm only a cipher in the young lady's estimation, and why
shouldn't I sigh for her if I like. I hope I shall see you all at
Boston before very long. I always consider Boston as my native
place, you know."

I wish I could recall half the incidents connected with the dear, dear
old Thackeray days, when I saw him so constantly and enjoyed him so
hugely; but, alas! many of them are gone, with much more that is lovely
and would have been of _good report_, could they be now
remembered;--they are dead as--(Holmes always puts your simile quite
right for you),--

"Dead as the bulrushes round little Moses,
On the old banks of the Nile."

But while I sit here quietly, and have no fear of any bad,
unsympathizing listeners who might, if some other subject were up,
frown upon my levity, let me walk through the dusky chambers of my
memory and report what I find there, just as the records turn up,
without regard to method.

I once made a pilgrimage with Thackeray (at my request, of course, the