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MY DEAR OWEN :
In dedicating to you this little book, which would never have appeared in its present form without your suggestion and encouragement, I have only to hope that it will not be deemed entirely unworthy of association with your name.
Loudon, May, 1847.
My dear Owen,
Your sincere friend,
W. J. BRODERIP.
THE Papers here collected were commenced by the particular desire of one whose name cannot be written without a renewal of the regret, felt so deeply, by so many, for his untimely loss. The brilliancy of Theodore Hook's wit, vivid but innocuous as summer lightning, was only equalled by the goodness of his heart, and when he sank,
"Like a bright exhalation in the evening,"
he left a dark void, which those who had the happiness of enjoying his charming society, can never hope to see brightened again. For his sparkling conversation flowed continually, and without effort, like an exuberant Artesian well. There was no straining for effect: all was easy-springing from the gaiety of a soul warmed by the presence of those whom he loved.
These pages appeared in the New Monthly Magazine under his editorship. When the inimitable Thomas Hood—another irreparable loss-succeeded the lamented Theodore, the "Recreations" were continued at his request; and they were concluded, when that periodical passed into the able hands of William Harrison Ainsworth.
The "Recreations" have had the good fortune to receive some marks of public approbation; but the author, who sketched