But that is not all that Mr. Dickens told me. He wrote down for me an experience his father once had with the family solicitor, which, I think, is worth your hearing. "My father's solicitor, Mr. Ouvry," he says, "was a very well-known man, a thorough man of the world, and one in whose breast reposed many of the secrets of the principal families of England. On one occasion my father was in treaty for a piece of land at the back of Gad's Hill, and it was proposed that there should be an interview with the owner, a farmer, a very acute man of business, and a very hard nut to crack. It was arranged that the interview with him should be at Gad's Hill, and the solicitor came down for the purpose. My father and Ouvry were sitting over their wine when the old man was announced. 'We had better go in to him,' said my father. 'No, no,' said the astute lawyer. 'John,' said he, turning to the butler, 'show him into the study, and take him a bottle of the old port.' Then turning to my father, 'A glass of port will do him good; it will soften him.' After waiting about twenty minutes they went into the study; the farmer was sitting bolt upright in an arm-chair, stern and uncompromising; the bottle of port had not been touched. Negotiations then proceeded very much in favour of the farmer, and a bargain was struck. The old man then proceeded to turn his attention to the port, and in a very few minutes he had finished the bottle." Mr. Dickens also told me of his father's knowledge of the legal profession, and of the distinguished members of it. Though not himself, he writes, of the legal profession, my father was very fond of lawyers. He numbered among his intimate friends Lord Denman, Lord Campbell, Mr. Justice Talfourd, Chief Justice Crockford; in fact, it is difficult to name any eminent lawyer who could not claim acquaintance, at any rate, with our great author. And he tells me, too, an anecdote relating to a distinguished lawyer of the present day--Sir Henry Hawkins. We nearly lost that great man, I think about the year 1851, on the occasion of some theatricals at Knebworth. The play was _Every Man in his Humour_, and Frank Stone, the artist, father of Mr. Marcus Stone, R.A., was allowed to play a part with a sword. (Those of you who have had any experience of theatrical matters know how dangerous it is to trust a sword to an amateur.) He came up flourishing the sword, and if Mr. Hawkins had not ducked we should have lost that eminent man; but he did it just in time.