predecessors._

Ever your affectionate friend,

Charles Dickens

Bright colors were a constant delight to him; and the gay hues of
flowers were those most welcome to his eye. When the rhododendrons were
in bloom in Cobham Park, the seat of his friend and neighbor, Lord
Darnley, he always counted on taking his guests there to enjoy the
magnificent show. He delighted to turn out for the delectation of his
Transatlantic cousins a couple of postilions in the old red jackets of
the old red royal Dover road, making the ride as much as possible like a
holiday drive in England fifty years ago.

When in the mood for humorous characterization, Dickens's hilarity was
most amazing. To hear him tell a ghost story with a very florid
imitation of a very pallid ghost, or hear him sing an old-time stage
song, such as he used to enjoy in his youth at a cheap London theatre,
to see him imitate a lion in a menagerie-cage, or the clown in a
pantomime when he flops and folds himself up like a jack-knife, or to
join with him in some mirthful game of his own composing, was to become
acquainted with one of the most delightful and original companions in
the world.

On one occasion, during a walk with me, he chose to run into the wildest
of vagaries about _conversation_. The ludicrous vein he indulged in
during that two hours' stretch can never be forgotten. Among other
things, he said he had often thought how restricted one's conversation
must become when one was visiting a man who was to be hanged in half an
hour. He went on in a most surprising manner to imagine all sorts of
difficulties in the way of becoming interesting to the poor fellow.
"Suppose," said he, "it should be a rainy morning while you are making
the call, you could not possibly indulge in the remark, 'We shall have
fine weather to-morrow, sir,' for what would that be to him? For my
part, I think," said he, "I should confine my observations to the days
of Julius Caesar or King Alfred."

At another time when speaking of what was constantly said about him in
certain newspapers, he observed: "I notice that about once in every
seven years I become the victim of a paragraph disease. It breaks out in
England, travels to India by the overland route, gets to America per
Cunard line, strikes the base of the Rocky Mountains, and, rebounding
back to Europe, mostly perishes on the steppes of Russia from inanition
and extreme cold." When he felt he was not under observation, a