cess of composition Little Nell followed him about everywhere; that
while he was writing "Oliver Twist" Fagin the Jew would never let him
rest, even in his most retired moments; that at midnight and in the
morning, on the sea and on the land, Tiny Tim and Little Bob Cratchit
were ever tugging at his coat-sleeve, as if impatient for him to get
back to his desk and continue the story of their lives. But he said
after he had published several books, and saw what serious demands his
characters were accustomed to make for the constant attention of his
already overtasked brain, he resolved that the phantom individuals
should no longer intrude on his hours of recreation and rest, but that
when he closed the door of his study he would shut them all in, and only
meet them again when he came back to resume his task. That force of will
with which he was so pre-eminently endowed enabled him to ignore these
manifold existences till he chose to renew their acquaintance. He said,
also, that when the children of his brain had once been launched, free
and clear of him, into the world, they would sometimes turn up in the
most unexpected manner to look their father in the face.

Sometimes he would pull my arm while we were walking together and
whisper, "Let us avoid Mr. Pumblechook, who is crossing the street to
meet us"; or, "Mr. Micawber is coming; let us turn down this alley to
get out of his way." He always seemed to enjoy the fun of his comic
people, and had unceasing mirth over Mr. Pickwick's misadventures. In
answer one day to a question, prompted by psychological curiosity, if he
ever dreamed of any of his characters, his reply was, "Never; and I am
convinced that no writer (judging from my own experience, which cannot
be altogether singular, but must be a type of the experience of others)
has ever dreamed of the creatures of his own imagination. It would," he
went on to say, "be like a man's dreaming of meeting himself, which is
clearly an impossibility. Things exterior to one's self must always be
the basis of dreams." The growing up of characters in his mind never
lost for him a sense of the marvellous. "What an unfathomable mystery
there is in it all!" he said one day. Taking up a wineglass, he
continued: "Suppose I choose to call this a _character_, fancy it a man,
endue it with certain qualities; and soon the fine filmy webs of
thought, almost impalpable, coming from every direction, we know not
whence, spin and weave about i