ore book,
unfinished, was to close what that famous book began; and the original
of the scene of its opening chapter, the opium-eater's den, was the last
place visited. "In a miserable court at night," says Mr. Fields, "we
found a haggard old woman blowing at a kind of pipe made of an old
ink-bottle; and the words which Dickens puts into the mouth of this
wretched creature in _Edwin Drood_, we heard her croon as we leaned over
the tattered bed in which she was lying."

Before beginning his novel he had written his last paper for his weekly
publication. It was a notice of my _Life of Landor_, and contained some
interesting recollections of that remarkable man. His memory at this
time dwelt much, as was only natural, with past pleasant time, as he saw
familiar faces leaving us or likely to leave; and, on the death of one
of the comedians associated with the old bright days of Covent Garden, I
had intimation of a fancy that had never quitted him since the
Cheltenham reading. "I see in the paper to-day that Meadows is dead. I
had a talk with him at Coutts's a week or two ago, when he said he was
seventy-five, and very weak. Except for having a tearful eye, he looked
just the same as ever. My mind still constantly misgives me concerning
Macready. Curiously, I don't think he has been ever, for ten minutes
together, out of my thoughts since I talked with Meadows last. Well, the
year that brings trouble brings comfort too: I have a great success in
the boy-line to announce to you. Harry has won the second scholarship at
Trinity Hall, which gives him L50 a year as long as he stays there; and
I begin to hope that he will get a fellowship." I doubt if anything ever
more truly pleased him than this little success of his son Henry at
Cambridge. Henry missed the fellowship, but was twenty-ninth wrangler in
a fair year, when the wranglers were over forty.

He finished his first number of _Edwin Drood_ in the third week of
October, and on the 26th read it at my house with great spirit. A few
nights before we had seen together at the Olympic a little drama taken
from his _Copperfield_, which he sat out with more than patience, even
with something of enjoyment; and another pleasure was given him that
night by its author, Mr. Halliday, who brought into the box another
dramatist, Mr. Robertson, to whom Dickens, who then first saw him, said
that to himself the charm of his little comedies was "their unassuming
form," which had so happily s