miss him
dreadfully. The sense I used to have of compactness and comfort about me
while I was reading, is quite gone; and on my coming out for the ten
minutes, when I used to find him always ready for me with something
cheerful to say, it is forlorn. . . . Besides which, H. and all the rest of
them are always somewhere, and he was always everywhere."

[246] The more detailed account of the scene which he wrote to his
daughter is also well worth giving. "A most tremendous hall here last
night. Something almost terrible in the cram. A fearful thing might have
happened. Suddenly, when they were all very still over Smike, my Gas
Batten came down, and it looked as if the room were falling. There were
three great galleries crammed to the roof, and a high steep flight of
stairs; and a panic must have destroyed numbers of people. A lady in the
front row of stalls screamed, and ran out wildly towards me, and for one
instant there was a terrible wave in the crowd. I addressed that lady,
laughing (for I knew she was in sight of everybody there), and called
out as if it happened every night--'There's nothing the matter I assure
you; don't be alarmed; pray sit down----' and she sat down directly, and
there was a thunder of applause. It took some five minutes to mend, and
I looked on with my hands in my pockets; for I think if I had turned my
back for a moment, there might still have been a move. My people were
dreadfully alarmed--Boycott" (the gas-man) "in particular, who I suppose
had some notion that the whole place might have taken fire--'but there
stood the master,' he did me the honour to say afterwards, in addressing
the rest, 'as cool as ever I see him a lounging at a Railway Station.'"

[247] The letter referred also to the death of his American friend
Professor Felton. "Your mention of poor Felton's death is a shock of
surprise as well as grief to me, for I had not heard a word about it.
Mr. Fields told me when he was here that the effect of that hotel
disaster of bad drinking water had not passed away; so I suppose, as you
do, that he sank under it. Poor dear Felton! It is 20 years since I told
you of the delight my first knowledge of him gave me, and it is as
strongly upon me to this hour. I wish our ways had crossed a little
oftener, but that would not have made it better for us now. Alas! alas!
all ways have the same finger-post at the head of them, and at every
turning in them."

[248] I give the letter in which he p