t the old houses in Rochester, and
the old cathedral, and the old castle, and the house for the six poor
travellers who, "not being rogues or procters, shall have lodging,
entertainment, and four pence each."

Nothing can surpass the respect paid to Longfellow here, from the Queen
downward. He is everywhere received and courted, and finds (as I told
him he would, when we talked of it in Boston) the working-men at least
as well acquainted with his books as the classes socially above
them. . . .

Last Thursday I attended, as sponsor, the christening of Dolby's son and
heir--a most jolly baby, who held on tight by the rector's left whisker
while the service was performed. What time, too, his little sister,
connecting me with the pony, trotted up and down the centre aisle,
noisily driving herself as that celebrated animal, so that it went very
hard with the sponsorial dignity.

Wills is not yet recovered from that concussion of the brain, and I have
all his work to do. This may account for my not being able to devise a
Christmas number, but I seem to have left my invention in America. In
case you should find it, please send it over. I am going up to town
to-day to dine with Longfellow. And now, my dear Fields, you know all
about me and mine.

You are enjoying your holiday? and are still thinking sometimes of our
Boston days, as I do? and are maturing schemes for coming here next
summer? A satisfactory reply to the last question is particularly
entreated.

I am delighted to find you both so well pleased with the Blind Book
scheme.[94] I said nothing of it to you when we were together, though I
had made up my mind, because I wanted to come upon you with that little
burst from a distance. It seemed something like meeting again when I
remitted the money and thought of your talking of it.

The dryness of the weather is amazing. All the ponds and surface-wells
about here are waterless, and the poor people suffer greatly. The people
of this village have only one spring to resort to, and it is a couple of
miles from many cottages. I do not let the great dogs swim in the canal,
because the people have to drink of it. But when they get into the
Medway it is hard to get them out again. The other day Bumble (the son,
Newfoundland dog) got into difficulties among some floating timber, and
became frightened. Don (the father) was standing by me, shaking off the
wet and looking on carelessly, when all of a sudden he perceived
somet