for
some years no face was more familiar than the French comedian's at
Gadshill or in the office of his journal. But theatres and their affairs
are things of a season, and even Dickens's whim and humour will not
revive for us any interest in these. No bad example, however, of the
difficulties in which a French actor may find himself with English
playwrights, will appear in a few amusing words from one of his letters
about a piece played at the Princess's before the Lyceum management was
taken in hand.

"I have been cautioning Fechter about the play whereof he gave the plot
and scenes to B; and out of which I have struck some enormities, my
account of which will (I think) amuse you. It has one of the best first
acts I ever saw; but if he can do much with the last two, not to say
three, there are resources in his art that _I_ know nothing about. When
I went over the play this day week, he was at least 20 minutes, _in a
boat, in the last scene_, discussing with another gentleman (also in the
boat) whether he should kill him or not; after which the gentleman dived
overboard and swam for it. Also, in the most important and dangerous
parts of the play, there was a young person of the name of Pickles who
was constantly being mentioned by name, in conjunction with the powers
of light or darkness; as, 'Great Heaven! Pickles?'--'By Hell, 'tis
Pickles!'--'Pickles? a thousand Devils!'--'Distraction! Pickles?'"[254]

The old year ended and the new one opened sadly enough. The death of
Leech in November affected Dickens very much,[255] and a severe attack
of illness in February put a broad mark between his past life and what
remained to him of the future. The lameness now began in his left foot
which never afterwards wholly left him, which was attended by great
suffering, and which baffled experienced physicians. He had persisted
in his ordinary exercise during heavy snow-storms, and to the last he
had the fancy that his illness was merely local. But that this was an
error is now certain; and it is more than probable that if the nervous
danger and disturbance it implied had been correctly appreciated at the
time, its warning might have been of priceless value to Dickens.
Unhappily he never thought of husbanding his strength except for the
purpose of making fresh demands upon it, and it was for this he took a
brief holiday in France during the summer. "Before I went away," he
wrote to his daughter, "I had certainly worked myself i