o carry us thither.
Early in the morning the whole house was astir; large hampers were
packed, ladies and gentlemen were clad in gay midsummer attire, and,
soon after breakfast, huge carriages with four horses, and postilions
with red coats and top-boots, after the fashion of the olden time, were
drawn up before the door. Presently we were moving lightly over the
road, the hop-vines dancing on the poles on either side, the orchards
looking invitingly cool, the oast-houses fanning with their wide arms,
the river glowing from time to time through the landscape. We made such
a clatter passing through Rochester, that all the main street turned out
to see the carriages, and, being obliged to stop the horses a moment, a
shopkeeper, desirous of discovering Dickens among the party, hit upon
the wrong man, and confused an humble individual among the company by
calling a crowd, pointing him out as Dickens, and making him the mark of
eager eyes. This incident seemed very odd to us in a place he knew so
well. On we clattered, leaving the echoing street behind us, on and on
for many a mile, until noon, when, finding a green wood and clear stream
by the roadside, we encamped under the shadow of the trees in a retired
spot for lunch. Again we went on, through quaint towns and lonely roads,
until we came to Canterbury, in the yellow afternoon. The bells for
service were ringing as we drove under the stone archway into the
soundless streets. The whole town seemed to be enjoying a simultaneous
nap, from which it was aroused by our horses' hoofs. Out the people ran,
at this signal, into the highway, and we were glad to descend at some
distance from the centre of the city, thus leaving the excitement behind
us. We had been exposed to the hot rays of the sun all day, and the
change into the shadow of the cathedral was refreshing. Service was
going forward as we entered; we sat down, therefore, and joined our
voices with those of the choristers. Dickens, with tireless observation,
noted how sleepy and inane were the faces of many of the singers, to
whom this beautiful service was but a sickening monotony of repetition.
The words, too, were gabbled over in a manner anything but impressive.
He was such a downright enemy to form, as substituted for religion, that
any dash of untruth or unreality was abhorrent to him. When the last
sounds died away in the cathedral we came out again into the cloisters,
and sauntered about until the shadows fell ov