ne beyond his sixtieth
year," he said, "very few even fifty." It is no good to talk of it, I
suggested. "We shall not think of it the less" was his reply; and an
illustration much to the point was before us, afforded by an incident
deserving remembrance in his story. Not many weeks before, a
correspondent had written to him from Liverpool describing himself as a
self-raised man, attributing his prosperous career to what Dickens's
writings had taught him at its outset of the wisdom of kindness, and
sympathy for others; and asking pardon for the liberty he took in hoping
that he might be permitted to offer some acknowledgment of what not only
had cheered and stimulated him through all his life, but had contributed
so much to the success of it. The letter enclosed L500. Dickens was
greatly touched by this; and told the writer, in sending back his
cheque, that he would certainly have taken it if he had not been, though
not a man of fortune, a prosperous man himself; but that the letter, and
the spirit of its offer, had so gratified him, that if the writer
pleased to send him any small memorial of it in another form he would
gladly receive it. The memorial soon came. A richly worked basket of
silver, inscribed "from one who has been cheered and stimulated by Mr.
Dickens's writings, and held the author among his first remembrances
when he became prosperous," was accompanied by an extremely handsome
silver centrepiece for the table, of which the design was four figures
representing the Seasons. But the kindly donor shrank from sending
Winter to one whom he would fain connect with none but the brighter and
milder days, and he had struck the fourth figure from the design. "I
never look at it," said Dickens, "that I don't think most of the
Winter."

A matter discussed that day with Mr. Ouvry was briefly resumed in a note
of the 29th of May, the last I ever received from him; which followed me
to Exeter, and closed thus. "You and I can speak of it at Gads by and
by. Foot no worse. But no better." The old trouble was upon him when we
parted, and this must have been nearly the last note written before he
quitted London. He was at Gadshill on the 30th of May; and I heard no
more until the telegram reached me at Launceston on the night of the 9th
of June, which told me that the "by and by" was not to come in this
world.

The few days at Gadshill had been given wholly to work on his novel. He
had been easier in his foot and hand; and