“It touches, I will admit to you frankly, a chord that has several times sounded in my breast, since I began my readings.  I should very much like to read in America.  But the idea is a mere dream as yet.  Several strong reasons would make the journey difficult to me, and—­even were they overcome—­I would never make it, unless I had great general reason to believe that the American people really wanted to hear me.

    “Through the whole of this autumn I shall be reading in various
    parts of England, Ireland, and Scotland.  I mention this, in
    reference to the closing paragraph of your esteemed favor.

    “Allow me once again to thank you most heartily, and to remain,

    “Gratefully and faithfully yours,

    “CHARLES DICKENS.”

Early in the month of July, 1859, I spent a day with him in his beautiful country retreat in Kent.  He drove me about the leafy lanes in his basket wagon, pointing out the lovely spots belonging to his friends, and ending with a visit to the ruins of Rochester Castle.  We climbed up the time-worn walls and leaned out of the ivied windows, looking into the various apartments below.  I remember how vividly he reproduced a probable scene in the great old banqueting-room, and how graphically he imagined the life of ennui and every-day tediousness that went on in those lazy old times.  I recall his fancy picture of the dogs stretched out before the fire, sleeping and snoring with their masters.  That day he seemed to revel in the past, and I stood by, listening almost with awe to his impressive voice, as he spoke out whole chapters of a romance destined never to be written.  On our way back to Gad’s Hill Place, he stopped in the road, I remember, to have a crack with a gentleman who he told me was a son of Sydney Smith.  The only other guest at his table that day was Wilkie Collins; and after dinner we three went out and lay down on the grass, while Dickens showed off a raven that was hopping about, and told anecdotes of the bird and of his many predecessors.  We also talked about his visiting America, I putting as many spokes as possible into that favorite wheel of mine.  A day or two after I returned to London I received this note from him:—­

“...Only to say that I heartily enjoyed our day, and shall long remember it.  Also that I have been perpetually repeating the ——­ experience (of a more tremendous sort in the way of ghastly comicality, experience there is none) on the grass, on my back.  Also, that I have not forgotten Cobbett.  Also, that I shall trouble you at greater length when the mysterious oracle, of New York, pronounces.

    “Wilkie Collins begs me to report that he declines pale horse, and
    all other horse exercise—­and all exercise, except eating, drinking,
    smoking, and sleeping—­in the dog days.

    “With united kind regards, believe me always cordially yours,