In the contiguous shrubbery was placed a Swiss Chalet, presented to Dickens by his friend Mr. Fechter, which arrived from Paris in ninety-four pieces, fitting like the joints of a puzzle. Our author was fond of working in this chalet during the summer months; and in it, much of the material of his latest work was prepared. In sad association with Gadshill Place, we must refer to the unexpected Death of Charles Dickens, which occurred here on the 9th of June 1870. He had been feeling weary and fatigued for some days previous to this date, but had nevertheless continued to work with cheerfulness, writing in the chalet, in preparation of the sixth number of “Edwin Drood.” On the 8th of June, whilst at dinner, he was suddenly attacked with apoplexy, and never spoke afterwards; and on the evening of the following day—with one rolling tear and one deep sigh—his gentle spirit soared beyond these earthly shadows, “Into the Land of the Great Departed, Into the Silent Land.” An interval being allowed for refreshments at the Falstaff Inn, _à discrétion_, we may resume the road onwards to the nearest station of HIGHAM—about a mile distant—whence the South-Eastern Railway may be taken for the homeward journey. At five miles’ distance we reach Gravesend, which is situated at the foot of the hills, extending for some two miles on the south side of the Thames. This town is the boundary of the port of London, at which many outward and homeward bound vessels on foreign service receive or discharge their passengers and freight. As we pass this station we may remember that in chapter 57 of “David Copperfield,” Gravesend is referred to as the starting-point of Mr. Peggotty and his niece, emigrating to Australia, and accompanied by _Martha_, _Mrs. Gummidge_, _and the Micawber family_. The parting with his friends David describes as follows:— “We went over the side into our boat, and lay at a little distance to see the ship wafted on her course. It was then calm, radiant sunset. She lay between us and the red light, and every taper line and spar was visible against the glow. A sight at once so beautiful, so mournful, and so hopeful, as the glorious ship lying still on the flushed water, with all the life on board her crowded at the bulwarks, and there clustering for a moment, bareheaded and silent, I never saw. Silent, only for a moment. As the sails rose to the wind, and the ship began to move, there broke from all the boats three resounding cheers, which those on board took up and echoed back, and which were echoed and re-echoed . . . Surrounded by the rosy light . . . they solemnly passed away.”