with a
gentleman from Asia)--My boy, would you give us that little Christmas
book (a little Christmas book of Dickens's, Macready, which I'm anxious
you should hear); and don't slur it, now, or be too fast, Dickens,
please!'--I say, if you was a real gent, something to this effect might
happen. I shall be under sailing orders the moment I have finished. And
I shall produce myself (please God) in London on the very day you name.
For one week: to the hour."

The wish was complied with, of course; and that night in
Lincoln's-inn-fields led to rather memorable issues. His next letter
told me the little tale was done. "Third of November, 1844. Half-past
two, afternoon. Thank God! I have finished the _Chimes_. This moment. I
take up my pen again to-day; to say only that much; and to add that I
have had what women call 'a real good cry!'" Very genuine all this, it
is hardly necessary to say. The little book thus completed was not one
of his greater successes, and it raised him up some objectors; but there
was that in it which more than repaid the suffering its writing cost
him, and the enmity its opinions provoked; and in his own heart it had a
cherished corner to the last. The intensity of it seemed always best to
represent to himself what he hoped to be longest remembered for; and
exactly what he felt as to this, his friend Jeffrey warmly expressed.
"All the tribe of selfishness, and cowardice and cant, will hate you in
their hearts, and cavil when they can; will accuse you of wicked
exaggeration, and excitement to discontent, and what they pleasantly
call disaffection! But never mind. The good and the brave are with you,
and the truth also."

He resumed his letter on the fourth of November. "Here is the brave
courier measuring bits of maps with a carving-fork, and going up
mountains on a teaspoon. He and I start on Wednesday for Parma, Modena,
Bologna, Venice, Verona, Brescia, and Milan. Milan being within a
reasonable journey from here, Kate and Georgy will come to meet me when
I arrive there on my way towards England; and will bring me all letters
from you. I shall be there on the 18th. . . . Now, you know my
punctiwality. Frost, ice, flooded rivers, steamers, horses, passports,
and custom-houses may damage it. But my design is, to walk into
Cuttris's coffee-room on Sunday the 1st of December, in good time for
dinner. I shall look for you at the farther table by the fire--where we
generally go. . . . But the party for t