In the afternoon he sought relaxation, and then the other inmates of the house came in for their share of his enviable society, and the basket-carriage was brought to the door, drawn by the “sober Newman Noggs,” the harness adorned with musical bells, which his friend Mr Lehmann had brought him from Norway, and we would take long drives all around this picturesque neighbourhood. Sometimes we would alight at a distant point, to return home on foot; sometimes we would wend our way through green hop-gardens on one side, and golden cornfields on the other for a distance of many miles; yet we were never wearied. I remember once Georgina Hogarth and I had accompanied him to a new spot of interest which he had lately discovered. He walked at his usual swinging rate, and we had proudly kept up with him. Only five minutes had been allowed for refreshment, as he called it, otherwise rest, between reaching the goal and arriving at home. How pleased his fellow-pedestrians were to receive the following tribute: “Well done!—ten miles in two hours and a half!” I sit in my armchair now, and look back on that feat as almost miraculous. Charles Dickens, himself a hero, was a hero-worshipper, and in all of my experience I never knew a man so utterly exempt from the slightest tinge of professional jealousy. One day I went with his two daughters, Mary and Katie (Mrs Charles Collins, who, with her husband, spent most of the summer under the paternal roof) and their aunt to meet him at the station. Lifting up the hand-bag which he always carried, he exclaimed: “Here, girls, I have a treat for you—Tennyson’s magnificent poem of ‘The Idylls of the King.’ Is it not glorious to think, that after having written for so many years, a man should now bring forth, perhaps, the noblest of his works.” What enchanting hours of summer sunshine were passed in reading for the first time those magical pages, which since that moment have been pored over and conned to my heart’s content. Among our visitors at Gad’s Hill were Fechter, the distinguished actor, Edmund Yates, Marcus Stone, and many others. I mention these three names in conjunction, for a special reason. Fechter, for whose talent I had an unbounded admiration, rather disappointed me as a companion. He had a limited scope in conversation, but as a mimic, he was unrivalled. It was not only that with the exact tone and inflexion of voice he assumed the gait and gesture, but he actually brought his features into so close a resemblance with the original he intended to copy, that when he walked into the room and advanced to greet me, I never failed to say, “How do you do, Mr Yates?” “I am glad to see you, Marcus,” and so on to others of my acquaintance. [Sidenote: “MICKETTY” AND “VENERABLE”]