unded in my breast, since I began my readings. I should very
much like to read in America. But the idea is a mere dream as yet.
Several strong reasons would make the journey difficult to me,
and--even were they overcome--I would never make it, unless I had
great general reason to believe that the American people really
wanted to hear me.

"Through the whole of this autumn I shall be reading in various
parts of England, Ireland, and Scotland. I mention this, in
reference to the closing paragraph of your esteemed favor.

"Allow me once again to thank you most heartily, and to remain,

"Gratefully and faithfully yours,

"CHARLES DICKENS."

Early in the month of July, 1859, I spent a day with him in his
beautiful country retreat in Kent. He drove me about the leafy lanes in
his basket wagon, pointing out the lovely spots belonging to his
friends, and ending with a visit to the ruins of Rochester Castle. We
climbed up the time-worn walls and leaned out of the ivied windows,
looking into the various apartments below. I remember how vividly he
reproduced a probable scene in the great old banqueting-room, and how
graphically he imagined the life of _ennui_ and every-day tediousness
that went on in those lazy old times. I recall his fancy picture of the
dogs stretched out before the fire, sleeping and snoring with their
masters. That day he seemed to revel in the past, and I stood by,
listening almost with awe to his impressive voice, as he spoke out whole
chapters of a romance destined never to be written. On our way back to
Gad's Hill Place, he stopped in the road, I remember, to have a crack
with a gentleman who he told me was a son of Sydney Smith. The only
other guest at his table that day was Wilkie Collins; and after dinner
we three went out and lay down on the grass, while Dickens showed off a
raven that was hopping about, and told anecdotes of the bird and of his
many predecessors. We also talked about his visiting America, I putting
as many spokes as possible into that favorite wheel of mine. A day or
two after I returned to London I received this note from him:--

"...Only to say that I heartily enjoyed our day, and shall long
remember it. Also that I have been perpetually repeating the ----
experience (of a more tremendous sort in the way of ghastly
comicality, experience there is none) on the grass, on my back.
Also, that I have not forgotten Cobb